BFF
by Celica60
Summary: Life in Stoneybrook isn't so simple anymore. Prequel to Regretting Stacey. Complete.
1. Chapter 1

**BFF**

Summary: As Stacey begins her final year at SHS, she learns that nothing stays a secret forever. Life in Stoneybrook isn't so simple anymore.

Rating: T for adult situations and mild language.

Author's Note: This story takes place in the same universe as my story _Regretting Stacey. _I suppose it could be considered a prequel. You don't have to read that story, however, to understand this one. This story is set a year before _Regretting Stacey. _

* * *

"Anastasia Elizabeth McGill!" my mother screams from downstairs. "You better not be late again!" 

I hop to my bedroom door on one foot while struggling to shove the other into a black leather boot and shout, "I won't!" which I hope isn't a lie. Senioritis appears to be an actual medical condition and I caught it quite early in the school year. It's only October and I rarely manage to reach Stoneybrook High on time each morning. The days I'm late far outweigh the days I'm on time. This perpetual lateness irritates my mother almost as much as it does Mrs. Dowery, my chemistry teacher. Five weeks into the school year and she's already called Mom three times to complain about my constant tardiness. Mrs. Dowery says it's a sure sign of impending delinquency. At age seventeen, I think it's a bit late to worry about that.

Once both boots are on the correct feet (I already wasted time trying to put the right boot on my left foot), I race to the window and push it open. A sharp wind hits my face. October seems startlingly colder this year. There isn't a white towel on the Pike's patio, but a quick scan of the yard finds a dense cloud of smoke hovering near the fence separating my yard from theirs.

"Mallory!" I yell, "Do you need a ride?"

Mallory waves away the smoke and looks up at the window. She calls back, " Yeah, that's why we're standing here."

"Meet me at my car. Hurry! I can't be late again!"

I slam the window shut and continue rushing around the room, picking up stray books and notes and shoving them haphazardly into my enormous book bag. I need to get organized. I can't take an entire year of this. I take a moment I can't really spare to check myself in the mirror. Despite the whirlwind in which I dressed I look fabulous (if I do say so myself). Black knee-high boots (my new favorites. My stepmother sent them just two weeks ago), black miniskirt, black and hot pink striped sweater, hot pink hoop earrings. It amazes even me how put together I manage to look on such short notice.

"You're late, Anastasia," Mom says when I run into the kitchen. She's been calling me that lately. Mostly when she nags, which occurs more frequently than I like.

"I'm not late," I argue, grabbing a banana and bran muffin off the table. I'll eat in the car. Or during first period. Maybe Mrs. Dowery won't notice. "And don't call me Anastasia!" I snap, cramming my sack lunch into my book bag. I race for the front door, almost forgetting to grab my coat off the couch.

"And don't forget," Mom calls after me, "you're meeting your father tonight!"

I slam the door like I don't hear. Let her worry about it all day. What does she care anyway? After four years, she can't even say "your father" without that edge creeping into her voice. It's like she's saying "your wart" or "your slug" and not referring to the man she was married to for fifteen years.

Mallory's sitting on the hood of my turquoise Chevy Impala (a sixteenth birthday gift from my father and Samantha. Mom was not thrilled), wearing ratty sneakers, torn jeans, and a thin seafoam-green sweater. And of course, smoking one of her foul, disgusting cancer sticks. Mallory thinks she looks cool. I think she looks absolutely ridiculous.

Sometimes I look at Mallory and can't believe she's the same girl I babysat, traveled to Sea City with, and all the while thought awkward and strange. Mallory's changed a lot since then. Changed much more than anyone else. She's a little taller and slimmer now and still not exactly pretty. Truthfully, rather plain, although finally rid of her much loathed braces and glasses. Her hair's still curly and she usually wears it in a ponytail. It's not a frizzy, out-of-control mess anymore, but in nice, tight ringlets. Her changes haven't simply been physical. Her personality has altered as well. It's sort of like part of her has hardened and grown cold. I don't always know if I like her or not.

Mallory springs off the hood, her cigarette dangling from her mouth. Behind her, Adam and Byron pass a cigarette between them.

"You're not taking those in my car," I tell them, just as I do every morning. "I can't believe your parents let you smoke."

Mallory throws her cigarette on the driveway and stomps it with a sneaker. "Too many kids," she replies.

After dumping our things in the trunk, Mallory, Adam, and Byron squish into the backseat. In the month the triplets have attended SHS, I've never given a ride to Jordan. Much like Mallory, the triplets have changed in strange ways. Jordan has become the triplet everyone expected Byron to be - polite and studious and well-behaved. Jordan is more interested in piano lessons and baseball than whatever it is Adam and Byron do to occupy their time. (I honestly don't want to know). Jordan has even set himself apart physically, wearing his hair short and spiky while Byron and Adam wear theirs so shaggy it falls over their eyes. I can't tell them apart anymore.

As I turn the key in the ignition, I spot Mom standing at the living room window, tapping her wristwatch and shaking her head. Scowling, I throw the car into reverse and back into the street so quickly I nearly run over Mrs. Wilder. I peel off toward Burnt Hill Road.

"Don't worry, we have plenty of time to get Mary Anne. We won't be late," I promise.

"Who cares?" replies Mallory. "I planned to skip gym anyway,"

"Speak for yourself," says Byron. "I have a test in World History. If I'm late Ms. Colliar will lock the door."

"No pressure then," I mutter, pressing harder on the accelerator.

"We should start getting rides with Tim's mom. She's never late," whispers Byron.

"Riding with a parent is lame," replies Adam.

"You could walk," I tell them, irritably. No appreciation. Adam and Byron can be such jerks. I've only given them rides for a month and already they take me for granted. Plus, I think they're ruining my upholstery. Last year was bad enough with Mallory reeking of smoke. Now I have three of them giving my backseat the aroma of a lifesize ashtray.

As soon as I pull up in front of Mary Anne's house, I can see what kind of day it'll be. Not a good one. The mornings at Mary Anne's house tend to set the mood for the rest of our day. Mary Anne's standing on the front porch glaring at her stepmother. Sharon's back is to me, but the hand on her hip and the tight expression on Mary Anne's face lets me know it's a typical morning at the Spier house.

Mary Anne strides past Sharon without a word. Mary Anne's still sensitive and quiet, but somehow the souring of her relationship with Sharon transcends that. Mary Anne doesn't make an effort anymore - not to be polite, not to be cooperative, not to be anything that pleases Sharon. In another year, Mary Anne will be gone. She just can't bother to care anymore.

At least that's what she swore at the start of the school year.

I wonder about that vow as Mary Anne approaches in the ugliest pair of dark green and lime plaid pants I have ever seen. Quite possibly, the ugliest pair ever made. They're so opposite Mary Anne's usual style that there's no way she chose them herself.

"I don't want to talk about it," Mary Anne says in a strained voice as she climbs into the front seat.

"Those are dibble pants, Mary Anne," says Mallory in a strange, high voice.

"Shut it, Mallory," I growl.

As soon as we turn onto Burnt Hill Road and Sharon's out of sight, Mary Anne bursts into tears. "I hate these pants!" she cries. "Sharon's mom bought them for me. Sharon said I had to wear them. I didn't know she meant to school!"

In the rearview mirror, I see Byron and Adam exchange a look that clearly means, _She's crying over pants?_ In the month they've been riding with us, they've learned not say anything. A lesson Mallory could afford to learn.

"Mary Anne," she says, "those pants aren't _completely_ hideous. At least your sweater's cute. It has some cat hair on the back though."

"Mallory," I sigh, as if my exasperation will have any affect. Sometimes I wonder if Mallory's really that dense or just mean-spirited.

Mary Anne wipes her eyes, sniffling. A silence falls over the car, an awkwardness hanging in the air, where it continues to hang until we pull into the SHS parking lot. Students are still milling around outside the building and in the parking lot. I let out a deep breath. Mrs. Dowery won't yell at me today.

As soon as I open the trunk, Byron grabs his backpack and takes off toward the school. Mallory and Adam take longer, leisurely gathering their books and jackets. Mary Anne's still in the car, rummaging through her backpack and even from the back I can tell she's frantic. As if anything else needs to go wrong this morning.

"It's stupid to cry over pants," Adam tells me, throwing a backpack strap over his shoulder.

"It's not about the pants," I snap, slamming the trunk shut.

Adam gives me one of his _Girls are so weird_ looks. It's like he's ten again. He starts walking toward the school without a "thank you" or "goodbye", which isn't unusual, but would be appreciated.

"I don't have Mariah's government notes!" Mary Anne cries, finally emerging from the car.

"You gave them to her at lunch yesterday," I reply.

"Oh, I guess I did,"

The first bell rings and I hurry Mary Anne and Mallory toward the building. Mallory breaks away before we reach the front doors, heading for Ben Hobart and Benny Ott. I wonder which one she's dating this week, but am not brave enough to ask. The less I know about Mallory's love life the better. Mallory's already digging through her bag for a cigarette. It's sort of my unspoken responsibility to make sure she at least goes inside the building. As far as I'm concerned, I'm no longer a babysitter and Mallory's not my charge. Mrs. Pike shouldn't expect anything more from me than a free ride.

Cokie Mason's standing at the front entrance, stamping her feet and shivering in a sleeveless dress. She gives Mary Anne a strange look as we pass. That single look is enough to send Mary Anne into tears again. I grab Mary Anne's hand, squeeze it tight so I won't lose her within the crush of students shoving their way to class. I pull Mary Anne into the girls room, which thankfully (and unbelievably) is deserted.

"I thought you weren't going to let Sharon push you around anymore," I say, managing to only thinly veil the irritation creeping into my voice. Mary Anne's my best friend, so I should be infinitely patient with her. But it's hard to be infinitely patient with someone who falls apart as often as Mary Anne. I have worries and troubles of my own without taking on the added burden of Mary Anne's. The weight of it all might crush me. I can't afford to collapse, too.

"I _haven't_ been letting her push me around," replies Mary Anne. "Dad's out of town again. She starts picking at me when he's not around to fight with." Mary Anne's face crumples again as new tears fall from her eyes. "I don't know why Sharon hates me."

I wet a paper towel and wipe the smeared mascara from Mary Anne's face. I sneak a glance at my watch. Two minutes til the tardy bell rings. "Sharon doesn't hate you. You said it yourself, she's redirecting her anger at your father to you,"

Mary Anne shrugs, appearing defeated. I often wonder if there's more going on than she tells me. It took her near forever to even admit there are problems at home. I don't like the idea of Mary Anne keeping secrets from me.

"I'm such a mess, Stacey. What a way to start senior year,"

"You aren't a mess," I reply, which is sort of a lie. Mary Anne has made a lot of progress in high school. She'll always be shy and sensitive, but still, she's grown stronger and more confident. However, since the summer she's regressed into the old Mary Anne, oversensitive and prone to collapsing into tears over the silliest things (like a pair of pants). Maybe it's just family problems, maybe it's more. I only know what she confides, but I also know there's something she's holding back.

"Better?" I ask as Mary Anne blows her nose.

She nods. "You're a good friend, Stacey,"

"I know,"

Mary Anne laughs. It's soft and strangled, but a laugh all the same.

"We're going to be - " I start but am interrupted by the shrill ring of the tardy bell.

Late again.


	2. Chapter 2

Mrs. Dowery yells at me in front of the whole class, then assigns me extra work. After that the morning improves. It's quick and uneventful. Second period Mary Anne and I have journalism together. Her mood has lifted and she acts like herself. No one mentions the pants.

Mary Anne and I haven't always been best friends. Is that a childish term - best friends? I used to be a big city girl in a small town, but I've spent so many years in Stoneybrook that now I'm just a small town girl in a small town. I don't know when I made the switch. My sophistication seemed to plateau during sophomore year. I'm no longer so far ahead of everyone else.

Mary Anne and I have been friends since I moved to Stoneybrook at the beginning of seventh grade. We probably never would have become friends if not for the Baby-Sitters Club. In middle school the club was really all we had in common. We were just so different. Mary Anne was quiet and sheltered while I was a worldly New Yorker used to traveling with the popular crowd. Mary Anne enjoyed knitting and playing with her kitten. I enjoyed shopping and fashion. Looking back the first years of our friendship seem rather shallow.

Everything changed when high school started. The Baby-Sitters Club dissolved over the summer and instantly everyone started going their separate ways. Mary Anne and I were sort of thrown together. Mary Anne had spent her life as Kristy Thomas' shadow, but Kristy didn't start SHS with us. Three weeks before the start of ninth grade, Kristy and Abby Stevenson inexplicably decided to attend Stoneybrook Day (a private school). No explanation. Mary Anne and I learned the news after spending two weeks in Sea City with the Pikes. We missed something in those two weeks, something important and life-changing, something Kristy and Abby refuse to disclose. At times I suspect Mary Anne knows the truth and hides it from me.

Claudia Kishi used to be my best friend. In eighth grade, we fought over a boy named Jeremy Rudolph. Our friendship never fully repaired itself after that. We drifted apart in high school. She dropped out last January when the winter blues became too overwhelming and geometry too hard. I guess it wasn't a big surprise. Claudia hardly ever went to class anyway. Her dad got her a job in the mailroom at his firm in Stamford. Whenever I see Claudia around town she talks about getting her GED, but I think that's all it is - a lot of talk.

In the absence of our old best friends, Mary Anne and I grew closer. Some things happened at the beginning of ninth grade that made me cling to Mary Anne, made me want to change to be more like her, worthier of her friendship and good nature. I guess I had an ulterior motive for becoming her best friend. I've never admitted that to Mary Anne and doubt I ever will. I'm too ashamed of the cause of my turnaround.

It was the second week of ninth grade. A woman from the Stoneybrook Health Clinic came to speak to my Phys Ed class about sexually transmitted diseases. She spent half an hour going through slides and charts and the entire time all I could think about was the slight ache in my throat. It had hurt all week. I had assumed it was just a common sore throat that would soon pass. But listening to the STD lecture, I realized a whole new possibility - I could have an STD. By the end of the period, I was convinced either gonorrhea or syphilis was causing my sore throat. I spent the rest of the day in a daze. After school, I rode my bike to the Stoneybrook Health Clinic. I fought back tears while the nurse swabbed my throat. Everyone at the clinic was pleasant and professional, but that didn't ease my discomfort or embarrassment. On the way home all I thought about was how I was riding my bike home from a health clinic, where I'd gotten an STD test. Only fourteen, still riding a bike, and I could have an STD. The worst was that if I did have an STD I wouldn't be able to name who'd given it to me. In the last year, I had performed oral sex on multiple boys - Sam, Robert, Jeremy, Ethan. None of them ever wore a condom. Well, Sam did the first time, but we never bothered after that.

I vowed right then and there to change my ways. I would enjoy my high school years without overcomplicating them with boys and dating and sex. I needed to find the real Stacey McGill. I'd spent the last two years as Boy-Crazy Stacey. I didn't want to be her any longer.

My sore throat turned out to be nothing more than a sore throat. I knew I'd dodged a bullet. I might not be so lucky the next time. I kept my vow. I threw myself into school and extracurriculars and into being Mary Anne Spier's best friend. She was the most pure person I knew (and still is). I needed her influence. I believe I am a better person because of it.

I've dated sporadically throughout high school. Nothing serious, not even anything close to serious. Mostly dances and an occasional movie. Mary Anne hasn't been too interested in boys either. She dated Pete Black twice - for three weeks sophomore year and for three months junior year. Mary Anne and I are both surprised how little we miss boys.

"Afternoon, girls," I greet my friends. It's fifth period lunch and the friends in question are Mary Anne (of course), Emily Bernstein, Julie Stern, and Grace Blume. "I'm famished," I tell them, sliding into my usual chair beside Julie. "Mr. Grainer's Hamlet test is a killer."

Emily groans, lowering her head to the table. "I have that next. I knew I didn't study enough last night. I'm going to bomb the test. I should go to the library to cram,"

Grace snorts. "_Please_. You probably studied for six hours last night. Your head will explode if you do any more,"

"I've lost my appetite," Emily says, pushing aside her cheese sandwich, even though she's only taken one bite.

"I'll eat it," offers Julie who has already consumed her own lunch. She reaches across the table and snatches Emily's sandwich. Julie is a bottomless pit.

The rest of us continue eating while Emily slumps in her seat, checked out of the conversation and probably racking her brain for every possible Hamlet quote. Emily and I were never really friends in middle school. Our first week of ninth grade she and Julie somehow convinced me to drop typing and join their journalism class. The next semester we convinced Mary Anne to do the same. Neither Mary Anne and I will ever be award winning journalists or anything, but we have a good time.

"May I sit?" asks a voice behind me.

It's Mallory. She sets her tray beside my sack lunch and pulls out a chair.

"Didn't the sophomores have lunch _last_ period?" asks Grace who has come a long way personality-wise since she stopped hanging out with Cokie Mason. Her nasty side still rears its ugly head every now and then. Especially when Mallory's around.

"I was indisposed," Mallory raises a hand. "Don't worry. I won't bore you with the salacious details. I know how they disturb Mary Anne and Emily. Let's just say Alexander Kurtzman's Buick has never seen such action,"

"You hooked up with _Alexander Kurtzman_," hisses Mary Anne.

Mallory laughs. "Of course not. I just hooked up in his car,"

Emily breaks out of her reverie to give Mallory a disapproving look. None of my friends like Mallory very much. Not even Mary Anne, although she won't admit it. Ever since Mallory was expelled from Riverbend Hall she's been a hard person to like. If we weren't neighbors, we wouldn't be friends. I'd like to think I'm a better person than that, that I'm someone who can see beyond Mallory's faults. But I'm not and I can't.

"So, Mary Anne," starts Mallory and I get this sinking feeling that Mallory's going to say something stupid. "Anyone say anything about your ugly pants?"

Mary Anne blushes. "No, but Cokie Mason gave me a funny look this morning,"

"Oh, you don't even know if she was looking at your pants," I reply, nonchalantly because I don't think Cokie's all that bad anymore. Although I'd never admit it to Mary Anne. "For all we know, Alan Gray wore a kilt to school again. Maybe Cokie was staring at him,"

Julie stands to survey the cafeteria. "No," she announces,"but he is wearing 3-D glasses."

"Mary Anne, if you didn't want to wear the pants, why didn't you just pack a different pair in your backpack?" Mallory asks.

I hide a smile behind my hand. Sometimes I catch glimpses of the old practical Mallory Pike. That's the Mallory I still want as a friend.

"Oh," says Mary Anne. Obviously the thought had not occurred to her.

"I can't believe we've spent half the lunch period discussing Mary Anne's ugly pants," comments Grace.

Everyone laughs, including Mary Anne. When I look across the table and see her so happy I think that maybe I shouldn't worry about her after all.

* * *

The rest of the day flies by. Once lunchtime rolls around it's like a giant weight is lifted from my shoulder. Sixth and seventh period Mary Anne and I have French and Statistics. French class is a total joke and Statistics is a breeze even for Mary Anne who usually isn't too great at math.

When the final bell rings, Mary Anne and I part ways. She heads to the journalism room to meet Emily while I head downstairs to Miss Everhart's classroom. Miss Everhart is the advisor for the Math Club (also known as the Mathletes). The Math Club meets on Mondays and Thursdays. We're preparing for a big competition against New Hope High School. I'm part of the primary block along with two other seniors and a junior. There are eight other students in the secondary block. The secondary block's purpose is to sub for the primary block if one of us can't make a competition.

Miss Everhart sends us through math drills for over an hour. Fifty minutes into the meeting Grace Blume slips into the room. She's wearing her tennis outfit (she plays doubles on the varsity team with Mari Drabek). Grace's presence sort of throws me off and I end up losing my round.

Like the majority of my current group of friends, Grace and I weren't friends in middle school. Since Grace was Cokie Mason's best friend and Cokie was the BSC's mortal enemy, Grace naturally became our enemy too. She was sneaky and calculating like Cokie, but to a lesser degree. When high school started Grace drifted away from her old friends. Grace and Cokie's friendship suddenly ended. At that time, Grace and I had just joined the junior varsity tennis team (the team anyone can join, even if they suck, which I did. I only played freshman year). Grace and I were going through similar changes and just sort of clicked. Out of Cokie's shadow, Grace is a much nicer person, although she still struggles with her acid-tongue. Maybe it's impossible to completely reform a personality after it's become accustomed to meanness.

"What are you doing here?" I ask Grace when Math Club ends.

"Tennis practice finished early," Grace explains. "I thought I'd come watch your practice."

"Oh...okay. Well, I have to meet Mary Anne,"

"I'll walk you," says Grace, gathering her purse and binder. "I need to get my chemistry book out of my locker..." Grace hesitates. "Plus, we can talk."

"Oh?"

Grace and I step into the hallway and head toward the stairs.

"There's a bible study at my house tonight, if you want to come," Grace tells me. After her break up with Cokie, Grace had some kind of religious awakening. She can be a bit...fanatical. Sometimes Mary Anne and I attend youth group with her. It's not that bad.

"I'm meeting my dad for dinner," I reply. Is this what she wanted to talk about?

Grace looks surprised. "Your dad's coming to Stoneybrook?"

"Yes,"

"He never comes here,"

"I _know_," I reply. I really don't need Grace pointing it out. "He has something important to tell me." I try to sound casual, as if I'm not worried about what could be important enough for my workaholic father to leave the office early to drive all the way to Stoneybrook.

I don't want to continue the conversation and luckily Grace switches the subject. "Homecoming's in a couple weeks," she begins. "Have you thought about running for Queen?"

"Running? Nominations aren't even out yet,"

"I know, but if you _are_ nominated, will you run?"

"I don't know..." I imagine myself riding on the senior float, wearing a slinky gown from a hot New York boutique while waving to the cheering crowd. It's a nice fantasy. "No, I don't think so. Last year I was disappointed about not being nominated for Princess, but I'm not interested this year. I have too much going on, especially Homecoming week. I'm working on the float, Mary Anne and I are rolling crepes for French Club..."

"So, I can spread the word that you don't want to be nominated?"

"Yeah...I guess. Why are people talking about nominating me?"

Grace hesitates. "Well, yes. I've heard rumors,"

I'm flattered. Almost enough to change my mind. Maybe I _would_ like to run for Homecoming Queen. Then I see the worried expression of Grace's face. She knows I'm reconsidering. "I don't want to run," I assure her.

Grace smiles. "Good. You can spread the word that I want to be nominated,"

"Oh, of course. You know, I was nervous when you came into the Math Club meeting. I thought you needed to talk about something important,"

"Homecoming _is_ important," snaps Grace.

"Sorry," I mumble, pushing open the door to the journalism room. Grace waves goodbye and continues down the hallway to her locker. Inside the journalism room, Mary Anne and Emily are seated at a computer.

"What's going on?" I ask them.

Mary Anne glances up and smiles, but Emily keeps her eyes on the screen.

"We're editing Shawna Riverson's advice column," Mary Anne explains. "We have to keep it PG."

"I still say Shawna Riverson's the last person who should be giving advice,"

Emily snorts. "Agreed. Blame Ian Scholl for that genius move." Ian Scholl was last year's Editor-in-Chief of the _SHS Gazette_. As this year's Editor-in-Chief, Emily is slowly attempting to undo the damage of his tenure.

"Should we stay awhile?" I ask Emily.

She shakes her head. "No, I'll only be here another hour or so. Then I'll pick up the volleyball and tennis photos from Fast Foto Stop. I have a ton of studying for tonight. It's best I work without distractions,"

"If you're sure," I reply, hesitantly.

Emily doesn't answer and instead begins scribbling furiously on a yellow legal pad. Silently, Mary Anne gathers her things and we slip out the door.

"I'm concerned about Emily," I tell Mary Anne as we start down the stairs. "All she ever does is study. When she's not studying she's barricaded in the _Gazette_ office,"

Mary Anne shrugs. "She's worried,"

"Senior year's supposed to be fun. College applications have already gone out. There's nothing we can do now. I mean, as long as we don't fail or get expelled,"

"Tell that to Emily,"

"She won't listen,"

Mary Anne and I fall silent as we step out into the chilly October air. The nicest part of having a best friend is not feeling the need to fill every moment with mindless chatter. For us, it's enough to be in one another's presence. We're content with that.

"I don't want to go home," blurts Mary Anne when we reach my car.

"Of course not. You're coming home with me,"

Mary Anne and I toss our things into the backseat and climb into the car. The parking lot's almost deserted so I don't even turn my head as I back out. Mary Anne thinks I'm a careless driver. She switches on the heater and the warm air rushing through the vents is the only sound as we drive away from SHS.


	3. Chapter 3

Mary Anne and Sharon's problems started over a car. It was just this past July after Mary Anne _finally_ got her learner's permit (almost a full year after she turned sixteen and almost a full year after her first driving lesson during which she nearly killed Mr. Spier and me when the Perkinses dog Chewy ran us over. Yes, Chewy ran _us_ over. Right over the hood of Mr. Spier's car. Then Mary Anne became hysterical and hit Janine Kishi with the car. Luckily, we were only driving about ten miles per hour). Sharon and Mr. Spier's problems started long before, which at the time I didn't know. I suspect Mary Anne and Sharon's problems started long before as well, but it's one of those things Mary Anne won't talk about.

The car in question was a gift from Mary Anne's grandmother, Verna (her late mother's mother). Verna moved to Stoneybrook about two years ago after selling her home in Iowa. She wanted to be closer to Mary Anne. The car was a silver 1992 Mitsubishi Eclipse - a few years old, but in good condition. At first Mr. Spier and Sharon were pleased with the gift (after all, now they didn't need to buy Mary Anne one). Then Dawn came to visit for the summer.

Dawn and Mary Anne used to be best friends, as well as stepsisters. After Dawn moved back to California permanently their relationship changed. Their lives were changing, _they_ were changing. Slowly, Mary Anne and Dawn stopped being best friends and eventually, friends at all. It wasn't anyone's fault. It was just one of those things that happens over time.

So, Dawn came out in June and brought her friend, Sunny. Of course, Dawn had her driver's license and had for awhile. Sharon told Dawn to feel free to drive Mary Anne's car. That did not sit well with Mary Anne. Or her grandmother, or Mr. Spier. Even though Mary Anne couldn't actually driver her car, she didn't want Dawn and Sunny driving it either. She was pretty convinced Sunny would talk Dawn into driving to Atlantic City then drive off the pier or something. The war over Mary Anne's car raged on for an entire month. It was Sharon and Dawn against Mr. Spier and Mary Anne. Things were bad. Real bad. So bad that Mary Anne stayed at my house for a week without going home even once. By the time Dawn and Sunny returned to California, Mary Anne and Dawn were no longer speaking. They haven't spoken since.

Things got progressively worse after that. Mary Anne finally admitted that things haven't been good for a very long time. Mr. Spier and Sharon fight constantly. Most of the time Mr. Spier sleeps in the den, except when he's traveling for work, which he does with increasing frequency these days. It's not very fair to Mary Anne because as soon as he leaves, Sharon starts picking fights with her.

I haven't mentioned the d-word yet. I'm sure it's crossed Mary Anne's mind. Divorce would probably be a blessing. The Spier household sounds like a living hell. I remember how it was when my parents fought. They'd had problems for awhile, before we ever moved to Stoneybrook, but things didn't get really bad until the end. I didn't have to live with all the screaming and name calling and accusations for very long. Not like Mary Anne. She doesn't invite me over too often anymore, but when I do go over the tension is so thick in the air it's hard to breathe. No wonder Mary Anne never wants to go home.

Mary Anne and I drive straight to my house after school. Since I'm meeting Dad for dinner we start our homework right away. We breeze through our French and statistics, then I set to work on my zillion pages of chemistry while Mary Anne works on a government project. We're so engrossed in our work, we don't hear Mom come in.

"Stacey!" she exclaims. How thankful I am she didn't use the dreaded A-name. "Why aren't you dressed?"

I glance at my watch. "Oh no! It's almost six 'o' clock! I totally lost track of time!" I slam my chemistry book shut and jump off the bed. "Should I change?"

"Well, you've been in those clothes all day," says Mom. "I suppose you have time. You aren't meeting your father until six-thirty. Honestly, Stacey, why are you always late these days?"

"I'm not late, Mom," I reply, testily. "Not yet. Now please leave so Mary Anne and I can get ready,"

Mom purses her lips in that annoying, disapproving way parents have. She turns sharply and leaves the room.

"Sorry, Mary Anne, but you aren't wearing those pants to dinner,"

"Oh, am I going with you?" she asks in a tone that's a mixture of surprise and hope. "Doesn't your dad have something important to tell you?"

"Yes, and I have a feeling it's not something I want to hear alone. I'll go get a skirt out of Mom's closet for you," Mary Anne can't fit into my clothes. Well, a lot of my sweaters she can, but my other clothes are too small. I know I'm way too thin. My parents, stepmother, and doctors keep nagging me about it.

I bring Mary Anne a tan A-line skirt, then change into a dark red sleeveless dress. Pietro's is always warm, so I don't worry about freezing in the autumn night. I'll wear a coat outside. Mary Anne and I say goodbye to Mom, who's in the kitchen microwaving last night's leftovers.

"Send your father my best," she says, stiffly. Maybe one day she'll actually mean it.

Pietro's is outside Stoneybrook, on the way to Washington Mall. It serves the best Italian food in Connecticut. On the rare occasions Dad visits that's where we always eat.

Mary Anne and I don't talk much during the drive. I'm too busy worrying. I haven't given myself time to worry until now. I've tried to push this dinner out of my mind. But now I have no choice but to worry. Dad was so mysterious when he called Monday. He refused to disclose the reason for his (finally) coming to Stoneybrook. He didn't come to any of my math competitions last year. He managed to make it to one of my swim meets.

It hurts that Dad doesn't make time for me. He's as much a workaholic now as he was when my parents were still married. It destroyed my parents marriage and at times, I admit, I've wondered if it will destroy my relationship with Dad. For awhile it was better. He started dating Samantha and she helped him find a balance between work and leisure. That hurt too because it was like Mom and I hadn't been important enough for him to change. And then this new woman came along and suddenly changing was worthwhile. As much as I love Dad, as much as I love Samantha, sometimes I cry about it. I can't help thinking that Dad loves her more. More than he loves me, more than he ever loved Mom.

Dad and I aren't close. I don't make it into Manhattan too often anymore. My life is too busy with school and clubs and sports and friends. Dad used to talk about how much he missed me, but he hasn't said that in a long time. He's accustomed to my not being around. I wonder, sometimes, if he's relieved because I'm not there to distract him from his work. He reverted back to his workaholic ways as soon as he married Samantha. She doesn't mind since she's a workaholic, too. Samantha's a fashion photographer and travels about two weeks out of every month. Dad's so buried in his work he probably doesn't notice when she's gone.

I love my dad. I really do.

But sometimes he makes loving him very hard.

"Boontsie!" Dad shouts when Mary Anne and I walk into the restaurant.

I cringe. People are staring. "Hi Dad," I reply, as he envelops me in his arms.

"Oh, Mary Anne, hello," Dad greets her with a strained smile. Dad thinks Mary Anne and I spend too much time together.

"Hello, Mr. McGill. I hope you don't mind that Stacey invited me,"

"Of course not," Dad replies, cheerfully. "Always glad to see you, Mary Anne,"

"Where's Samantha?" I ask as a waiter leads us to a table.

"Samantha?" Dad repeats. "Oh...Hong Kong. Or Tokyo. I don't remember."

"You don't remember?"

And with that Dad basically confirms my greatest fear - Dad and Samantha are getting a divorce.

"So...Dad...what's your big news?' I ask him.

"After dinner, Boontsie. We'll discuss it over dessert," Dad replies, staring at his menu. "I think I'll get the pasta primavera. What about you?"

"I don't think I'm very hungry,"

Dad's face becomes concerned. "Not hungry? Stacey, you're much too thin. Have you been following your diet?"

"Yes, Dad," I say, crossly.

"I think I'll have the lasagna," Mary Anne says loudly.

"So, Boontsie - " starts Dad after we've ordered.

"Please don't call me that,"

Dad frowns momentarily, then smiles like nothing's wrong. "So, Stacey, sent in your college applications yet?"

"Mary Anne and I have sent most of them in,"

"Still not applying to NYU?" Dad asks.

"No, Mary Anne and I agree that the purpose of going away to college is to live somewhere you've never lived before. I love New York, but it wouldn't be a new experience. Besides, Mary Anne's Dad won't let her go to school in New York. He thinks she'll get mugged on the way to class,"

Dad frowns again. "You guys applied to all the same schools?"

"Yes,"

Dad forces his frown into a big smile again. "Well, that's great. Go with someone you know. You girls should apply to my alma mater, Wesleyan. Your dad won't have to worry about you getting mugged there, Mary Anne." Dad launches into a story about his old fraternity, which doesn't end until our food arrives. Dad never asks where we actually applied.

While we eat, Mary Anne and I tell Dad about school - the preparations for Homecoming, our idiot French teacher, the latest drama in journalism class. Dad acts really interested, but that's it - I know he's acting. He's bursting to tell me his important news, but in the usual Dad fashion won't come right out and say it. Instead he has to waste time talking about everything but his news. By the time dessert arrives (Mary Anne and Dad order chocolate cheesecake. I order fresh fruit) I can't take it any longer.

"Dad, will you please tell me your important news?"

Dad sets down his fork and clears his throat. "Oh...well, Stacey...you see...Monday morning, Mr. Davis - you know Mr. Davis?"

"Yes, I know Mr. Davis,"

"Well...Mr. Davis told me Monday morning that I'm getting a big promotion,"

"That's it? Dad, that's great!" I laugh, "I thought you and Samantha were getting divorced!"

"Divorced? No, no, no," Dad shakes his head. "But see, Stacey this is a really big promotion. I'll be an executive vice president...in Cleveland."

I drop my fork. "Cleveland?"

"Yes, Cleveland. I'll be moving there,"

"You're moving to Cleveland?" A huge knot forms in my stomach. "What about Samantha? What about me?"

"Samantha's coming too. As for you, well Stacey, you hardly visit New York anymore. Plus, you'll be going away to college soon. You wouldn't have time to visit your old Dad anyway," Dad chuckles like he said something incredibly funny.

"But New York is my home,"

"Stoneybrook is your home, Stacey," Dad replies. "It has been for quite awhile."

"But New York was my first home," I hold back my tears. I'll never see Dad anymore. We won't walk through Central Park together or eat at Tavern on the Green. He won't ever again meet me in Grand Central Station. "When are you moving?"

Dad shifts in his chair. "Well...Stacey, they need me there as soon as possible. Samantha and I are moving next Saturday,"

"Next Saturday? That's not even two weeks notice! How could they just spring this on you, Dad?"

"I've known it was a possibility for quite some time. It wasn't a complete surprise,"

"It's a surprise to me!" I exclaim. "You knew about this? Before Monday? You knew you might be moving to another state and didn't tell me?"

"Calm down, Stacey!"

"No, I will not calm down, Dad!" I shout, even though the other diners are staring.

"I knew you'd be upset. That's why I waited to tell you,"

"It's the waiting that upsets me, Dad! You knew all about this for weeks and weeks, didn't you? This affects me too, Dad. I'm never going to see you and Samantha now. And don't say that you never see me anyway because that's not all my fault. You never visit me either. You never come to my math competitions or my swim meets or just to see me for no reason. You never make an effort. Mom's right, you are the most selfish man alive!"

Mary Anne stands. "I think I'll go to the restroom,"

"Don't bother, Mary Anne. We're leaving," I stand, gathering my coat and purse. "Goodbye, Dad. Have a nice move." I turn and storm out of the dining room with Mary Anne following at my heels. Everyone's still staring. I hardly notice.

"Anastasia!" Dad shouts. "Anastasia Elizabeth McGill! Come back here!"

Mary Anne and I drive two blocks, then I pull over. "Get out and switch me places," I order. "You're driving home."

"_Me_?" squeaks Mary Anne. "I don't have a license!"

I burst into tears. Mary Anne has no choice but to drive. I sob all the way home. Mary Anne's too afraid to take her eyes off the road to offer any comfort. She drives half the way in the bike lane, but we reach my house safely. Mom opens the front door as soon as we pull into the driveway.

"Your father just called," she tells me, as I walk up the driveway. She looks furious.

"Did you know?" I exclaim. I'm feeling semi-hysterical. Strange, this must be how Mary Anne feels all the time.

"That he's moving to Cleveland?" asks Mom. "No. He just told me. Of all the nerve! Springing this on you like that!" Mom wraps her arms around me and kisses my head.

"I'm never speaking to him again," I mumble into Mom's blouse.

Mom doesn't say anything, knowing any protest will just start a fight. Instead she sends Mary Anne to boil water for tea, then wraps me in a fuzzy blanket. Mary Anne brings the tea and the three of us sit around the living room, sipping it and not speaking.


	4. Chapter 4

It's Friday evening. A whole twenty-four hours since my fight with Dad. He's called three times, but I won't answer the phone. Samantha called too. The first words out of her mouth were, "Stacey, you're being very childish." That basically ended the call. I expected Samantha to take my side, like she always did when she and Dad were dating. Things have changed (what hasn't?) and Samantha doesn't feel as if she has to be on my side all the time. I guess that's what happens when you're dating someone with kids. You try to win them over, work very hard at it, but eventually stop making the effort. I know Samantha loves me. I love her too. But we're not friends like I thought we'd be. We're not close like I thought we'd be. I think that, like Dad, at times Samantha forgets I exist. 

I've spent all of Friday wallowing in self-pity. Mom wouldn't let me stay home from school. She said it would do me no good to sit in the house all day and stew. I know she was right, but the day was still a disaster. Mrs. Dowery yelled at me again, not because I was late (I wasn't), but because I hadn't finished the extra work she assigned. I'm seriously considering dropping that class. Second period Emily slaughtered my review of Nicky Cash's new CD with her red pen. I got a 73 on my Hamlet test (the same grade as Cokie Mason - a double blow). Then during French class Lauren Hoffman threw up in front of everyone. I hate seeing people throw up. 

TGIF, I say. Thank God it's Friday. 

Not that I have anything to do. I've spent the afternoon eating a box of Wheat Thins and watching trashy talk shows with my cat, Paddy (short for Paddington, which is the name he came with thanks to Claire Pike). Mary Anne had a babysitting job at the Marshalls right after school. I've gotten used to her being around. It's strange to spend an afternoon without her. 

Unfortunately, my other friends have lives on Friday night. Grace and Julie are out with their families. I tried calling Emily, then remembered that she now unplugs the phone at sunset. I could walk over to her house, but sitting around in the dark with Emily and her parents isn't my idea of a fun evening. 

I'm relieved when the phone rings. Hoping it's not Dad I answer. "Hello?" 

"Hi Stacey. It's Mallory," 

"Hey Mal!" Never before have I been so thrilled to speak to Mallory Pike. 

"What are you doing?" 

"Watching t.v. I'm home alone. Mom's on a date," 

"I'm babysitting Claire. Want to come over?" 

"Yes!" I reply a bit too enthusiastically. Hanging out with Mallory isn't high on my Friday night wish list, but it's better than sitting at home alone. Or in the dark with Emily Bernstein. 

After hanging up, I feed Paddy his dinner (not that he needs it. He's positively enormous) and put on my coat. Teeth chattering, I hurry through my yard and the Pikes' yard and let myself in the back door. Mallory's sitting on the kitchen counter in flannel shorts and a baggy t-shirt. 

"Hey Stace," she greets me. "Thanks for coming over. I'm bored out of my mind. Vanessa and Claire are the only ones here," 

"Where's everyone else?" 

"Dad's in Buffalo for the weekend visiting his old law school roommate. Jordan and Margo went with him. Byron and Adam are out with their friends, probably stealing hood ornaments or harassing old ladies or something. Mom took Nicky to Burger Town and a movie. It's one of their special nights," Mallory hops off the counter and rolls her eyes. 

Nicky Pike has problems, although the Pikes aren't any more specific than that. He sees specialists in New York and Stamford. One of these specialists recommended that Mr. and Mrs. Pike spend one-on-one time with Nicky every week. The rest of the Pike kids feel rather slighted over this, especially since Nicky gets his own room. Margo and Claire share their old bedroom, the triplets share the largest bedroom, then Nicky has the smallest bedroom all to himself. Mallory and Vanessa live in what used to be the rec room. Personally, I wouldn't be too upset over Nicky's special treatment considering that the alternative is probably him killing everyone with a screwdriver or something. 

"I'm glad you called," I tell Mallory as I follow her down the stairs. "I was going crazy at home. I was just about to go to Emily Bernstein's house to sit in the dark just so I wouldn't be alone," 

"Why is Emily Bernstein sitting in the dark?" 

"Because it's the Sabbath. Emily and her parents are on some kind of religious kick. They've always been pretty conservative. You know, keeping kosher, observing all the holidays, but lately they've gotten really strict. From sunset Friday to sunset Saturday they unplug their phone, disconnect the doorbell, don't use electricity..." 

"I always forget Emily's Jewish," replies Mallory. "So, they just sit around in the dark?" 

"Well...I don't know. I'm sure they do _something_," I realize that I've never actually asked Emily what she does on Friday nights. Or why Jews can't use electricity on the Sabbath. Maybe I should. "Julie thinks Emily's losing her mind." 

Mallory throws herself onto her bed. "I think Emily Bernstein lost her mind a long time ago. I've never met anyone wound so tight. Not even Mary Anne," 

"You're just mad because she shot down your editorial idea about school smoking areas," says Vanessa from her bed. 

"Oh, hi, Vanessa. I didn't see you," I tell her. 

Vanessa shrugs and goes back to reading her book. Vanessa's in eighth grade this year and after Jordan probably the most normal Pike kid. Thankfully she stopped talking in rhymes a couple years ago. I think she discovered free verse. 

"Who's your mom on a date with?" asks Mallory. 

"I don't know. Some guy she's gone out with a couple times this week. I've been so busy that I haven't had time to ask about him," I reply, which is true. Mom and I don't see each other very often these days. Homework and extracurriculars and my friends have me so distracted and Mom's been working long hours lately. (Mom's a buyer at Bellair's, although she's been talking about opening her own boutique since I was thirteen. Every time she gets close to actually doing it, she chickens out). Mom and I used to be really close. I need to make more of an effort. 

Mallory grins, slyly. "So, a mystery man, huh? Should we get out the mystery notebook?" 

I giggle. "If I suspect him to be running a counterfeit ring or of planning a jewelry heist, you'll be the first to know," Still giggling, I lean back in my chair. Oh, the good old days of the BSC. Life was so simple back then. "So, what's Ben doing tonight?" I ask Mallory. 

Mallory's face clouds. She shrugs. "I don't know," 

"Did you break up _again_?" I swear, Mallory and Ben break up every other week. 

Mallory stares at her nails. "Not exactly...he's kind of not allowed to see me anymore," 

I sit up straight in my chair. Intriguing. "What happened?" 

Mallory shrugs. 

"Trust me, you don't want to know," Vanessa pipes up. "It's so gross." 

"You little sneak!" shrieks Mallory. "Have you been reading my journal?" 

"The one you keep so cleverly hidden beneath your mattress? No. James Hobart told me," Vanessa replies. She closes her book and hops off the bed. "I don't want to hear the story again. I'm going to Charlotte's house." 

Mallory and I watch Vanessa climb the stairs. Mallory's face is bright red. As much as I usually dislike hearing anything about Mallory's love life I am absolutely dying to know what happened. 

"It's not as bad as Vanessa claims," Mallory says, quickly. She sighs. "Mathew walked in on me giving Ben head and told their mom." 

Okay, Vanessa was right. I didn't want to know that. For some reason the thought of Mallory doing anything sexual seriously creeps me out. Maybe because I used to babysit her. 

"Did Mrs. Hobart call your parents?" 

Mallory nods. "Yes. They said at least I couldn't get pregnant that way," 

I don't know what to say. Obviously Mr. and Mrs. Pike are taking their liberal parenting methods a little too far. 

"Mallory, are you down there?" a voice calls from the top of the stairs. 

"Oh, man," mutters Mallory getting off her bed. "What's she doing home?" 

Mrs. Pike comes down the stairs. She gives me a tight smile. "Hello, Stacey. I didn't expect to see you here." At some point in the last year Mrs. Pike stopped liking me. I have no clue what I did to offend her. 

"I thought you wouldn't be home until nine," Mallory says to her mother. 

"Nicky forgot his jacket," explains Mrs. Pike. "Where's Claire? Did you feed her yet?" 

Mallory shrugs. "I think she's doing her homework. And she's nine. She can feed herself," 

"Why don't you order a pizza from Pizza Express? I'll leave some money on the table," Mrs. Pike smiles her tight-lipped smile again. "Have a nice evening girls," 

Once Mrs. Pike leaves and we hear the front door shut, I turn to Mallory. "Why doesn't your Mom like me?" I ask. 

A strange look crosses Mallory's face. She hesitates. "Oh...well, it's not that she doesn't like you," Mallory pauses. "It's just your mom." 

"Oh," I reply. Mom and Mrs. Pike used to be really close friends. I don't know what happened. They just stopped being friends. I thought it was just one of those things, like with me and Claudia or Mary Anne and Dawn. Maybe there was more to it than I thought. 

Mallory orders the pizza, then she, Claire, and I put on our coats and trek through our yards to my car. Claire talks the entire way about Jenny Prezzioso's upcoming Halloween party and how she gets to go all the way to Greenvale to attend it. Greenvale is where Mrs. Prezzioso and the girls moved last winter after she and Mr. Prezzioso got divorced. I think they live with her brother. 

We're driving through downtown Stoneybrook when Mallory suddenly lunges across me, pointing out the window. "Stop!" she cries. "The A&P! I need tampons!" 

"Mallory, you're going to make me wreck!" I shriek at her. Is she insane? Who acts like that in a moving vehicle? 

"What's a tampon?" asks Claire. 

"Shut up," snaps Mallory. "Just stop, Stace. The pizza won't be ready yet," 

I groan. "Mallory, you know I hate going to the A&P," I pull into the parking lot anyway. 

Mallory rolls her eyes. "Sam Thomas can't keep you out of the grocery store forever," She looks in her purse. "Do you think he'd sell you a carton of cigarettes? I'm almost out." 

"I'm not buying you cigarettes, Mallory," I reply, getting out of the car. 

The A&P is packed. Claire tries to dawdle at the candy aisle, but I hurry her passed. Mallory finds her tampons and we head to the front of the store. Of course, there's only one Express Checkout open. And of course, Sam Thomas is the cashier. 

Sam and I dated on and off when I was in eighth grade. He was in tenth grade and a nice guy, but a little immature. Things just didn't work out between us. He pursued me in ninth and tenth grade, but I made it clear I wasn't interested anymore. Sam dated a lot of girls during that time. When he was in twelfth grade and I was in tenth, he started dating an eleventh grader named Janet Gates. It wasn't too serious...until Janet got pregnant. (Kristy took this as a personal insult considering that Janet once infiltrated the BSC in order to sabotage it). Janet's parents pressured Sam into marrying her. Sam and Janet have been married almost two years now. They live with her parents. Sam works full-time at the A&P and attends Stoneybrook U. part-time. I know he isn't happy. 

None of that is what makes me uncomfortable around Sam. What makes me uncomfortable is something Mary Anne told me last April. Kristy told her that Sam's still in love with me. He tells everyone that I'm "the one that got away". He's even said it in front of Janet. I'm too young to be anyone's "one that got away". And I certainly don't need a married man lusting after me. So I avoid the A&P and Sam Thomas whenever possible. 

"Stacey!" Sam exclaims when it's our turn in line. His entire face lights up. 

I shoot Mallory a dirty look. "Hello Sam," I greet him. 

"You look great, Stacey. I love your hair like that," 

I smile, weakly. "Thanks. I'm letting the last body wave grow out," 

"It looks great. How are you? I never see you anymore," 

"I guess you're probably pretty busy with a wife and baby," 

Sam sort of frowns. "Yeah, I guess I am," He hands Mallory her bag. 

"It was nice to see you, Sam. Take care," I tell him. 

"You too, Stace. Come by again. We can catch up," He smiles one last time, then turns to the next customer. 

"Gee," says Mallory when we get back to the car. "He really is still in love with you," 

I turn the key in the ignition and shake my head. "He doesn't love me. He's just unhappy," 

Mallory fastens her seatbelt and says, "There are a lot of unhappy people in this town." 

Until now I hadn't thought about it. I guess she's right. Stoneybrook isn't the ideal place I once thought. 


	5. Chapter 5

"Of course I don't sit around in the dark," Emily says testily during second period journalism class. 

I feel my face grow hot. Perhaps I should have worded my question more delicately. Emily, Mary Anne, Julie, and I are standing around Julie's slanted artist desk (actually Julie's sitting at it. She's the _Gazette_'s layout artist).

"And we do have candles, you know. It's not like we're groping around in the pitch dark," Emily continues. "Yes, we can't use electricity or drive a car or work, but it's not like we're just sitting around staring at each other. The Sabbath is a day of leisure to remember God's day of rest after creating the world. It's a very joyous day!" Emily's voice rises shrilly with the last sentence.

"Gee, I only asked a simple question," I reply rather snappishly. I'm not in the best of moods either. I don't need Emily on my case. "Since when are you so passionate about your religion anyway?"

Emily stiffens and frowns. "I like the order. I like being in control,"

"Sounds to me like it's controlling you,"

"You're really insensitive, Stacey," Emily snaps, then turns sharply and stalks away.

I press the heel of my palm to my forehead. "It's bad enough when Grace goes fanatical on us. I don't need Emily doing it too,"

Mary Anne exchanges a glance with Julie, then says, "You were a bit insensitive, Stacey."

"I was not," I argue. "What's with Emily these days? She's acting really weird,"

"I told you," says Julie. "Emily's losing her mind."

Mary Anne shakes her head. "She's not losing her mind. She's just losing control,"

"I think it's time Emily learned she can't control everything in the world. She's behaving like a complete loon," I reply.

"She's just worried. Senior year's stressful. She doesn't know where she'll be next year. She has months to wait for her college acceptance letters and that just gives her even more time to worry," explains Mary Anne. Leave it to Mary Anne to find the logic of Emily's impending breakdown.

Julie leans over her artist's desk and whispers, "She'll slit her wrists if she doesn't get into Georgetown."

Mary Anne looks shocked. "That's a horrible thing to say, Julie!" she exclaims. "Don't joke about that."

"Who's joking? Emily told me that herself," Julie replies.

Mary Anne and I don't know what to say. It's strange how Mary Anne and I sometimes appear to operate with the same mind. We both turn to look at Emily, who's on the opposite side of the room. She's lecturing a group of freshmen with one hand on her hip and the other pointing in the air.

"She looks like my stepmother," whispers Mary Anne, which almost makes me laugh, but I'm not sure if Mary Anne meant to be funny.

Emily's always been a little uptight, but likable. She's been a true and loyal friend throughout high school. Her good qualities far outweigh the bad. Perhaps I _was_ insensitive.

We quickly forget about Emily and her debatable sanity when the Associated Student Body (ASB) Secretary walks into the room carrying a stack of blue and yellow papers. She hands the stack to Mr. Arden (the journalism advisor) then smiles and waves at the class as she leaves. Mr. Arden stands at the front of the classroom. Everyone's watching him with interest.

He clears his throat. "It looks like I have the Homecoming nomination forms," he tells us.

Several kids cheer. Julie rolls her eyes. I try not to look _too_ excited.

"Juniors and seniors only. Sorry underclassmen. You'll get to vote in the final election," says Mr. Arden, handing the yellow stack to Emily. "Juniors have the blue forms, seniors have the yellow."

The way Homecoming nominations work is like this: today every senior nominates one girl for Queen and one guy for King. Every junior nominates a girl and a guy for Princess and Prince. The ASB counts all the nominations and the five students in each category with the most nominations wins an _official_ nomination. Everyone has an entire week to campaign. The Friday morning of Homecoming the whole school votes for one Queen, King, Prince, and Princess. The Prince and Princess are crowned during the Homecoming rally, but the King and Queen aren't crowned until the Homecoming game. It's all a pretty big deal at SHS. And I admit, it was a pretty big deal to me last year. I was really disappointed when I didn't get nominated for Princess.

Mary Anne and I sit down at a table with our yellow nomination forms. I write down Grace's name just as promised. I think awhile about possible candidates for King, finally settling on Pete Black. I worry it might be disloyal to Mary Anne. She swears their break up was mutual, but still gets prickly whenever anyone mentions his name. I sneak a glance at her form. Surprisingly, she's written down Pete's name too. I try to glance over at Julie's nomination form, but the slant of her desk makes it difficult. Plus, she's crooked her arm around the paper and has bent her head low over it. She's shaking with suppressed laughter. Not a good sign.

"Did you write down Mrs. Dowery and Mr. Arden or something?" I ask Julie once Emily collects are forms.

Julie laughs and shakes her head. "No! Emily Bernstein and Alexander Kurtzman!" Julie throws back her head with laughter.

I don't always get Julie's sense of humor.

I plan to apologize to Emily when the bell rings, but she rushes out before I can say anything. As I'm loading my book bag, Mary Anne grabs my elbow and pulls me to the back corner of the classroom. Except for Mr. Arden the room is empty.

"Have you talked to your Dad?" asks Mary Anne.

"No. I'm still mad at him,"

"It shows," replies Mary Anne, which surprises me, even though Mary Anne says it very nicely. She frowns. "You're taking your frustration out on Emily. It's just like Sharon and me."

"Are you comparing me to Sharon?"

"No! Well, sort of. You're redirecting your frustration with your father to Emily. That's just what Sharon does to me. You were unfair to Emily. I mean, you aren't _really_ upset with her are you? What's wrong with believing in something or having some faith?"

"Nothing, I guess. I'm still worried about her, but you're right. I was insensitive and rude. I'll apologize," The next class is filing into the room, so Mary Anne and I gather our things and walk to the door. Our third period classes are downstairs. "Dad and Samantha want me to come to New York," I tell Mary Anne.

"When?"

"Sometime before they move. They want me to pack up my room. I'm supposed to decide what to bring home to Stoneybrook and what to send with them. Samantha says she'll make my room in Cleveland exactly like the one in New York," Mary Anne and I stop outside her chemistry class. "I told her not to worry. I won't need a room in Cleveland. Do you think I'm being too harsh again?"

Mary Anne hesitates, then shakes her head. "No, your feelings are justified. Your dad and Samantha are being unfair. They should have told you about the situation weeks ago,"

"Exactly! Anyway, I don't think I'll go. I can't see Dad again. At least not for awhile,"

Mary Anne hesitates again and glances into her filling classroom. "We could go now," she whispers.

"Now? To New York?"

Mary Anne nods. "Yeah, your dad and Samantha will be at work. We can get everything packed before they come home. It'll be fun!"

"Mary Anne Spier," I laugh, "are you suggesting we ditch?"

"Shh," whispers Mary Anne, "not so loud." Mary Anne glances around the nearly empty hallway and grabs my elbow, pulling me toward the front door. I'm too shocked to protest. Mary Anne - shy, rule-abiding Mary Anne - insisting that we ditch school to sneak off to New York? Perhaps she has changed more than I thought. Or perhaps her constant conflicts with Sharon ignited a rebellion within her.

It's surprisingly easy to sneak out of SHS. It actually requires no sneaking whatsoever. Mary Anne and I simply walk out the front doors and through the parking lot to my car. No one appears to see us drive out of the parking lot either. If I'd known it was so easy, I would have started ditching school long ago.

Mary Anne and I don't speak much during the drive. I have a lot of thinking to do. Mostly about me and Dad. It's funny how Mary Anne senses these things. I've had best friends before - Laine Cummings and Claudia Kishi, but it's not the same with Mary Anne. We're close in a different way. She instantly knows things about me, sometimes before I know them myself. I never expected that we'd be like this. I took Mary Anne as my best friend for the wrong reasons, but I guess even things done for the wrong reasons can turn out completely right.

I manage to find a parking spot only a couple blocks from Dad's apartment building. Dad's apartment is on East 65th Street near Bloomingdale's. He says he moved near Bloomingdale's for me. I guess so I'd have something to do on the weekends while he stayed at the office. I let Mary Anne and myself into Dad's apartment with my key. I gasp when we walk in. The apartment's nearly completely packed. Boxes are stacked everywhere. The boxes take up so much room there's just two narrow pathways leading from the front door to the kitchen and the front door to the bedrooms. My blood boils. Obviously Dad's been packing a very long time.

I'm angry at Dad all over again. I don't understand how he thought I wouldn't mind that he was leaving me. He already left me once. How could he do it again? I know we aren't close anymore and I hardly make it into the city anymore. As long as Dad lived in the city there was always that hope though. Maybe one day we would be close. Maybe one day he would become the Dad I need. Maybe one day...but that doesn't matter now. Once Dad moves to Cleveland I'll never see him. A few times a year, I guess. He might make it to graduation in June. Otherwise, it'll be all cards and phone calls. Eventually cards and phone calls stretch out over the months becoming less and less until one day they just stop. I'm afraid that's what will happen to Dad and I. One day we'll just stop.

Mary Anne and I spend several hours sorting through my room. Mary Anne puts the boxes together and I toss in my belongings. As little time as I've spent in the apartment in the last two years, it's amazing how much junk I've accumulated. Most of it's old and useless. Mary Anne shoves those boxes into a far corner. Dad and Samantha can give them to Goodwill. Most of the other boxes can go to Cleveland. I don't need any more lamps or posters or linens in Stoneybrook. The stuff I decide to take is mostly clothes and books and photos. Plus, the quilt from my bed. Mary Anne's grandma made it for me. It's black, white, and red and has a neat geometric design on it. Sending it to Cleveland seems wrong. Mom and I can put it in the guest room.

"Are we about finished, Stacey?" Mary Anne asks. "I'm starving,"

I glance at my watch. It's nearly two 'o' clock! "Yikes!" Did I just say "yikes"? "I totally lost track of time, Mary Anne. I think I'm done. I'm just taking these four boxes. Dad can deal with the others."

"Do you want to write him a note?" Mary Anne asks.

I look out into the hallway at all the boxes lining it and beyond those see the other boxes cluttering up the living room. I shake my head. "No. I have nothing to say to him right now," which is a complete lie and Mary Anne knows it. I have too much to say, but nothing that should be said in a note. If I start I might never stop.

Mary Anne and I carry the boxes into the hall and I lock the door behind us. Four boxes are too heavy to carry all the way to my car and I'd rather not make two trips, so I get a semi-brilliant idea. I walk down the hall and knock on the McCann's door. The McCann's moved into 2C a few months ago. I've never met them, but Samantha's friends with Mrs. McCann. I know the sons are in college. After a day of ditching school and packing up my New York life I am feeling very bold.

"I'm Stacey McGill from down the hall," I tell the boy who answers the door. "Well, my dad and stepmom live down the hall. Could you help my friend and I carry some boxes to my car?" I don't have to turn around to know Mary Anne's dying of embarrassment.

The boy looks at me blankly for a moment, then nods. "Sure. Let me get my brother," and disappears into the apartment.

Five minutes later Mary Anne, Keith, Harold (Harold!), and I are lugging my boxes down East 65th Street. I'm really not sure which brother is which (I never thought my formerly boy-crazy self would forget the name of a cute boy). Keith and Harold look around nineteen or twenty. They attend Columbia University, studying...something. The tall one in the maroon sweater (Harold?) talks a lot. Mary Anne keeps going, "Mm-hm," and "Uh-huh," I'm not even listening (obviously). It's not like me to be _completely_ disinterested in cute boys (I may not be boy-crazy, but I still have eyes). Further proof that Dad has me all twisted up inside.

Keith and Harold load the boxes into the trunk. Then they invite Mary Anne and me to lunch. I decline, saying we have too much to do. Honestly, I can't manage to carry on a conversation with strangers, even if they are very cute and nice. Mary Anne looks disappointed. I think she likes Harold...or Keith (whoever is wearing the maroon sweater).

After thanking the McCann boys and saying our goodbyes, Mary Anne and I head around the corner to our favorite delicatessen. Mary Anne often accompanies me on my trips to New York and we have all our own favorites now. Mary Anne orders her usual (ham and swiss on a sourdough roll) and I order mine (roast beef, mayo, and pickles on wheat). As we eat, I try not to wonder if we'll ever come here again. Soon New York will not be home. I doubt I'll visit very often. I'd just be another tourist.

Mary Anne and I roam the streets after lunch. We pop into some of our favorite stores. There are so many places I want to see a final time. Final. I say that like I can never come back. Like I'm going to die tomorrow. I guess a small piece of me _is_ dying. The native New Yorker in me. She's been dying for a long time now, I guess, as I assimilate to small town life. That sounds so silly. When did I become such a drama queen? Life is all about change. I need to realize that and move on.

Easier said than done.

Mary Anne and I walk to Bloomingdale's, where I buy us matching necklaces of dark red glass beads. I also buy myself a cashmere sweater to match. I try to buy Mary Anne one too, but she protests too much. So I buy her a red suede skirt instead. Red is the color of my day. I pay for everything with my credit card. The one Dad gave me. I'm punishing him with it. Like it or not, he will buy me lovely things today. My father may not love me enough, but at least I can dress in cashmere.

Outside the store, Mary Anne stops to look at a window display. As I adjust the book bag strap over my shoulder, I catch sight of a girl coming up the block. I do a double take just like in the movies. The girl is Laine Cummings, but not the Laine Cummings I ever knew. I've known several Laine Cummingses in my life and most of them I've not liked. The last time I saw Laine was years ago (how many? I can't recall) outside a diner. She was tougher and harder than the Laine of my childhood. She acted as if we were still friends, but I knew we would never be friends again. The Laine walking up the block is different. She's walking with two other girls and they're all dressed in pleated maroon skirts and tweed blazers. I realize I have no idea where Laine goes to school. Even now it's strange to know so little about Laine's life. Laine and the other girls are laughing. The last few times I saw Laine she wasn't happy. She looks very happy now. Happy and free. I'm glad for Laine, but as she draws near I turn away and lower my head. I point out a pair of shoes to Mary Anne. Mary Anne's my best friend now. Laine is part of my past.

"Let's go home," I say to Mary Anne a short while later. "I've said all the goodbyes I can."

The drive back to Stoneybrook is different than the drive from it. Mary Anne and I spend the whole time laughing and gossiping and listening to Cam Geary's horrid Broadway musical soundtrack (Cam Geary in _Sweeney Todd_? Not a good idea). Dad and I still have unfinished business, but I've put some other things behind me. I've said goodbye to New York and my second home and, in a way, to Laine Cummings.

It's almost six when I pull up in front of Mary Anne's house. Her dad and Sharon's cars are in the driveway. For the first time today Mary Anne looks really nervous, like the reality of ditching school and running off to New York is finally dawning on her. She takes her time getting out of the car.

"Do you think the school called?" she asks me.

"Maybe. Just hope they didn't leave a message,"

My words are not comforting to Mary Anne. She shuts the door and walks slowly up the driveway to her house. I'm fairly certain Mr. Spier will come flying out the front door in a panic at any moment. I don't wait around to see it.

Mom went straight from work to a concert in Stamford. Another date with Mr. Mystery, as Mallory calls him. I know his real name now. It's Nicholas and he works somewhere downtown. Other than that Mom's been rather vague. Not exactly a ringing endorsement for this relationship, but at least it got Mom out of the house for the evening, giving me the opportunity to erase the message left by the school secretary. As long as no one called her at work, Mom will never know about today. After feeding Paddy, I lay on the couch with the telephone. (Not to call Mary Anne. I'll let that storm calm a few hours...or a few days). Instead I dial Emily Bernstein's number.

"Emily? This is Stacey," I say after Mr. Bernstein puts her on the line.

"Oh, hi Stacey,"

I take a deep breath. "Emily, I'm calling to apologize. You were right this morning. I was insensitive. I shouldn't judge how you spend your time. If you find comfort in religion that's your business. I'm sorry,"

Emily stays silent for awhile. Finally she says, "I'm sorry, too, Stacey. I snapped at you first. I went a little nuts. I've just been really stressed out."

"Me too. We're all sort of stressed out, Emily. You're not alone,"

Emily falls silent again. I barely hear her breath through the receiver. When she finally speaks her voice is altered, sort of cheerful but strained. "Skyllo and his new band have a CD coming out next week. Why don't you review it for the _Gazette_? You're still a fan, right?"

"Yeah, sure. Sounds great, Emily," I reply rather dully.

"Great! Well, see you tomorrow, Stace. Thanks for calling,"

"Bye Emily,"

After hanging up with Emily, I go out to my car and start carrying the boxes in. I have to make four trips. When all four boxes are in my room, I shove them into the closet, so I don't have to look at them. I walk downstairs and wander through the darkened rooms, then realize there's nothing to do. So, I go upstairs and lay on my bed and cry.


	6. Chapter 6

I'm not having a good month when it comes to parents. Dad and I are no longer on speaking terms, my relationship with Mom is up and down, for some reason Mrs. Pike hates me, and now Sharon Spier has declared me to be a "negative influence". It's like all the parents got together and decided to lose their minds at the same time. 

Needless to say, Mr. Spier and Sharon freaked out when Mary Anne came home Monday night. The school secretary had left a message on their answering machine and Mr. Spier panicked and called the police and the hospital and my mother (who thankfully had already left the office). He convinced himself Mary Anne was dead or at least in the process of dying, so when she walked through the front door he was more relieved than angry. Due to his initial overreaction, Mary Anne probably would have gotten off easy if it hadn't been for Sharon, who completely lost it. She called Mary Anne selfish and inconsiderate, then when Mary Anne finally told her side of the story (in tears, I'm sure), Sharon switched to calling me selfish and inconsiderate. All that eventually led to my being a "negative influence". I guess Mary Anne didn't tell them ditching school to go to New York was all her idea. Not that I blame her. 

Now Mary Anne's grounded for two weeks. Sharon tried to ground her for an entire month, but Mr. Spier thought that was excessive which led to a huge fight when Mr. Spier pointed out that Dawn once ditched school and flew across the country. I don't know when Mr. Spier became sort of cool. Mary Anne says it's his guilty conscience. At least Mary Anne's getting something for her misery. That's probably a horrible thing to say, especially when I know more than anyone how empty gestures are when done out of guilt. 

Dad and I aren't speaking anymore. He called Monday evening, absolutely furious that I'd come to New York without telling him. He thought my not leaving a note was a deliberate snub (which it was). He called me immature and petty. I called him self-centered and uncaring. Then he hung up on me. He hasn't called since nor has Samantha. I guess she's tired of her rude, childish stepdaughter. 

Unfortunately, Dad called Mom at work on Tuesday. He called right after Sharon Spier. Mom called me at home with a half-hearted lecture, but didn't punish me. I don't think she was even that upset. She understood my reasons. And she's too consumed with anger at Dad to have much anger left over for me. Usually I hate it when Mom and Dad fight, but right now I don't mind. I like knowing that Mom's on my side. 

The first meeting of the Senior Float Committee is after school on Wednesday. It's a disaster because some moron put Alan Gray in charge. Grace and I are considering dropping out of the Committee. Homecoming was fun the last three years, but I have a bad feeling about this year. Plus, Mary Anne's already dropped out since she's grounded. It's not that Mary Anne and I have to do everything together, but for big stuff like Homecoming I want her around. 

I get home at four-thirty and am surprised to see Mom's station wagon in the garage. The earliest she usually gets home is five-fifteen. When I walk into the house, I'm instantly hit with two things: the smell of my favorite chicken casserole baking in the oven and Mom's Neil Sedaka tape playing on the stereo. If Mom being home from work early wasn't enough indication that something's up, this is. 

"What's going on?" I ask, walking into the kitchen. 

Mom turns away from the stove, smiling. She has an apron on over her work clothes. "Stacey! I thought you'd be home earlier," 

"I had a Homecoming meeting. What are you doing?" 

"What am I doing?" repeats Mom, still smiling. 

This is very suspicious. 

"Something's going on. You're cooking and playing that tape. You know I hate that tape. All the songs sound the same. What are you so happy about?" 

Mom wipes her hands on the apron. "Is it a crime to be happy? Oh, well, you caught me. We're having a guest for dinner," 

"A guest?" The only guest we ever have is Mary Anne and she doesn't really count. 

"Stacey, you know that man I've been seeing?" says Mom. Uh-huh. I should have guessed. "He's coming for dinner," 

Things must be more serious than I thought. Mom doesn't date much. Her longest relationship lasted about three months. That was two years ago. She says she's committed to the bachelorette life now. 

"I really want you and Nicholas to get to know each other," Mom tells me. "I want you to give him a chance. You will give him a chance, won't you, Stacey?" 

This does not sound promising. "Is there something wrong with him?" 

Mom laughs, nervously. "No! No, no. There's nothing wrong with him. He's a perfectly wonderful, kind, generous man. Just give him a chance," 

I'm speechless. Is he really ugly or something? Mom makes it sound as if he has two heads. My stomach does a backflip. This evening cannot end well. 

"Why don't I set the table," I suggest. 

"Yes, that would be very helpful. It'll give me a chance to get ready. Nicholas won't be here until five-thirty or so," Mom unties her apron and lays it across a chair. 

I start gathering the silverware and plates. Mom starts to leave the kitchen, but hesitates, watching me. I half expect her to tell me Nicholas _does_ have two heads. But Mom doesn't say anything at all. She leaves the kitchen without a word. I set the dining room table carefully after spreading Mom's nicest lace tablecloth on it. In the kitchen, I find a bouquet of flowers resting in the sink. I fill a vase with some water and set it in the center of the table. I check my watch. It's only five to five. I run upstairs to change. I hear the shower running in Mom's room. I hope she doesn't take forever. I don't want to have to entertain a two-headed circus freak by myself. 

I peel off my jeans and sweater, kicking them under the window. I stand in front of my closet in my bra and underwear for awhile. Circus freak or not, I want to make a good impression. It's not often I meet a guy Mom's dating. This really must be serious. Mom deserves some happiness. I need to make an effort for her. 

I decide to wear my new sweater and necklace with a pair of black slacks and heels. I brush my hair and refresh my makeup, then check myself in the mirror. I look like a girl who'll make a good impression. I head downstairs for a quick sweep of the living room. Mom and I are pretty good housekeepers, but every now and then someone forgets a sweater on the couch or a stack of magazines fall to the floor. I'm repositioning Paddy on the recliner (a cat on his back with his legs spread apart right next to the front door is not a welcoming sight. At least not for a first time guest) when someone knocks at the door. I glance at the clock. It's only five-thirteen. Mom's new boyfriend is early. 

I fluff my hair and take a deep breath while praying he's not as hideous as I imagined. Then remind myself that personality counts more than good looks. I open the front door. 

"Hello Stacey," 

I scream. I actually scream. It's deafeningly loud in my head, but comes out of my mouth soft and surprised. It's not that he's deformed or unattractive. He's very nice looking. It's just that he's... 

"What are you doing here, Mr. Prezzioso?" 

Mr. Prezzioso looks surprised. "I came for dinner. Didn't your Mom tell you?" 

"No," I reply, rather rudely, I admit. "Would you excuse me?" I walk away, leaving him on the porch. 

I run up the stairs and burst into Mom's bedroom. Mom's standing in front of her dresser in just a black skirt and a bra, putting in her left earring. "Mr. Prezzioso's at the door," I tell her in an edgy voice. 

Mom turns around, her mouth forming an "O" of surprise. "I didn't hear the door," she says casually. 

"Why is Mr. Prezzioso at the front door?" I demand. 

"Because I invited him for dinner," Mom replies. She starts fiddling with her earring. "I told you I invited someone for dinner," 

"You didn't say it was Mr. Prezzioso!" 

"I knew you'd be upset, Stacey. That's why I waited so long to tell you. And I was going to tell you as soon as I got dressed. Nick wasn't supposed to be here this early. I was going to tell you we've been dating," 

"You're dating Mr. Prezzioso?" I cry, as if I hadn't already figured it out. Having it confirmed is completely different than simply assuming it. "You are way too old for him!" 

Mom appears deeply offended. "I am not too old for him," she protests. "There's only six years between us. I'm forty-two, Stacey. It's not like I have one foot in the grave." 

"You're just like Dad. This is no different than what he did to me. How could you sneak around behind my back?" 

Mom looks even more offended. "I am not like your father. Stacey, you're behaving like a child," 

"Yeah, I've been hearing that a lot lately," I snap, then turn and stalk out of the room. I go to my bedroom and slam the door. I throw myself face down on my bed. I don't cry. I'm sick of crying over selfish grownups. 

Mom doesn't come after me. Instead I hear her walk down the stairs and greet Mr. Prezzioso. He must have stayed standing on the porch because the front door shuts. I don't hear their voices, so they're probably discussing me in whispers. I roll over onto my back. And I thought Dad had a lot of nerve! All this time Mom was criticizing him while she's been sneaking around with Mr. Prezzioso! It makes me vaguely ill. Parents shouldn't be so disappointing. 

I reach for the phone on my night table and dial Mary Anne's number. She's not allowed to use the phone, but maybe her dad and Sharon aren't home yet. 

No luck. Sharon answers the phone. "Hello?" she says, pleasantly. 

"Hi, Mrs. Spier. Can Mary Anne come to the phone? Just for a minute?" 

Sharon's voice goes cold. "No, Stacey, she cannot come to the phone. You know she's grounded. Please don't call again," Sharon tells me, then hangs up. 

There's really no one else I can call. Emily, Grace, and Julie would be sympathetic, but not completely understanding. Their parents are still married. They can't imagine how it feels to have a parent sneak around behind your back. Dad did the same thing with Samantha. That was bad enough, but Mom did it with someone I know, someone I used to babysit for. It's not that I don't like Mr. Prezzioso. He's a nice man. But he's just all wrong for my mother. 

There's a light knock at my door. "We're about to eat," Mom says through the door. 

I wait until I hear her going down the stairs, then I get off the bed and brush my hair. I go downstairs. In the dining room, I hear Mom say, "She's been having a hard time lately," She says it as if she's not part of the problem. She's just like Dad. They never should have gotten divorced. They're perfect for each other. 

"Looks great," I say, sliding into a chair. Mom and Mr. Prezzioso are already seated. "Hello Mr. Prezzioso," 

"Hello Stacey," he replies, giving me a small, strained smile. 

No one says anything after that. We concentrate on eating. What did Mom expect? Obviously she knew I wouldn't be overjoyed. At least I know where Mom's been spending all her time. Over at Mr. Prezzioso's swinging bachelor pad. Oh. Ew. I don't want to think about that. 

"So, Stacey," starts Mr. Prezzioso after what seems like an eternity. "Still do a lot of babysitting?" 

"No, I don't have time," 

"Stacey's very busy, Nick," Mom tells him. "She's in the Math Club and French Club. And she's on the swim team," 

"I was on the swim team in high school, too," says Mr. Prezzioso. 

"I'm not very good," I reply, mashing up my casserole. I'm not hungry at all. 

"As long as you get out there and try," says Mr. Prezzioso. 

That same uncomfortable silence falls around the table again. Mom and Mr. Prezzioso keep sneaking small, encouraging smiles at each other. It's sickening. I guess now that he's divorced Mr. Prezzioso figures he can date anyone's mother. It's really not his fault. I know that deep down. The problem is Mom. She pretended to be on my side just to get me on hers. 

"How do Jenny and Andrea like Greenvale?" I ask Mr. Prezzioso. I suppose I should make some kind of an effort. Like I said, it's not his fault Mom's a liar and a sneak. 

"They like it. It's been an adjustment, especially for Jenny, but things are improving. Jenny's in the third grade this year and Andrea just started pre-school. But things are better, things are better," Mr. Prezzioso replies. It sounds like he's trying to convince himself. 

I nod and spear some green beans with my fork. Out of nowhere I realize something. I drop the fork and feel my throat close. Oh my Lord. If Mom marries Mr. Prezzioso, Jenny Prezzioso will be my stepsister! 

I start gagging. Mom jumps up and beats her hand against my back. "Stacey, honey, are you choking?" she asks. 

I shake my head and push her hand away. I take a long drink from my glass. Mom and Mr. Prezzioso stare at me. I'm fairly certain Mr. Prezzioso thinks I'm either completely ill-mannered or utterly insane. After a minute, they resume eating. 

As if the nightmare that has become my life needs to get any worse. I imagine Jenny Prezzioso tearing through my bedroom, pulling my clothes out of the closet, and dumping my makeup on the floor, then throwing a tantrum when I scold her. I see her living in my house, walking prissily down the hall in her frilly, spotless dresses. Spoiled, bratty Jenny Prezzioso is just about the last person I need invading my life. And Andrea Prezzioso might be ten times worse. As a baby, she was an in-demand model in print ads and commercials. Her career ended when she grew into a plain and sullen toddler. Just what I want - a brat and a jaded former baby model wreaking havoc in my formerly calm, lovely life. 

After dinner, I volunteer to clear the table. From the dining room, I can see Mom and Mr. Prezzioso standing in the living room, giggling and kissing. Mom obviously doesn't care about my misery or wounded feelings. She kept this from me on purpose. I am not her main priority. Her sex drive is. 

"Are you sure you don't want to come to the movie?" Mom asks me, smiling like the evening has been a complete success. 

"I have a lot of English homework," I reply. 

"If you're sure..." says Mom. "We won't be late. We'll have a long talk when I get home," 

"Sure," I reply, unenthusiastically. 

"It was nice seeing you again, Stacey," Mr. Prezzioso tells me. "I hope to see more of you," He glances at Mom, then pats my back, awkwardly. 

"Good night, Mr. Prezzioso," 

Once they leave I finish loading the dishwasher and wiping down the counter. I consider trying to call Mary Anne again. Maybe if Mr. Spier answers he'll let me talk to her for a few minutes. But with the way my luck's been lately, I'd end up getting yelled at by Sharon again. I can't think of anyone else to call. Emily has too many of her own worries, Grace was in one of her moods today, and Julie can't always be relied upon in times of personal crisis. Standing at the kitchen sink I feel very alone. 

I look out the window and see a figure moving by the back fence. I always forget about Mallory. Without bothering to put on a coat, I walk out the back door and approach the fence. Mallory's pacing around the the charred remains of what used to be the triplets fort before Nicky burned it down. As usual, there's a cigarette held tight between her fingers. Her face is tense, like she's lost in deep thought. She doesn't notice me at first. I wrap my arms around myself and wait for her to glance up. 

"Stacey!" she cries, startled when she finally notices me. "How long have you been standing there?" 

"Not long," 

"I think it's creepy," 

"What are you doing?" I ask her. 

"Thinking," she stops pacing and leans sits down on top of the Pike's picnic table. "About Ben. His parents still won't let me see him. Like it's all my fault. Like I forced him to pull down his pants. I guess they think sucking his dick is some sort of privilege I don't deserve. Asses." Mallory says bitterly, still looking tense and troubled. "Anyway, I'm worried Ben's going to dump me. We can't go to my house or his and there's nowhere else to get some privacy. The janitor started locking the custodial closet, so that's out. Ben's not happy. He's been dropping hints. If he can't get it from me, he's going to get it somewhere else." 

"If Ben Hobart dumps you because you can't blow him, then he's a jerk and not worth your time," 

Mallory rolls her eyes. "Thanks, Mom," she replies, sarcastically. 

"You shouldn't do anything you don't want to," 

"I do it because I want to," she snaps. 

I'm not going to argue. I felt the same way in my relationships with Sam, Robert, Jeremy, and Ethan. It's an awful, desperate feeling, like panic trapped in a bottle about to explode. No one should live with that feeling. I did things I didn't want to out of some distorted obligation and those mistakes are still with me all these years later. They will never be fully corrected. I will always be the girl who blew multiple guys in eighth grade. But I can't tell Mallory that because she's not going to listen. She's going to make Ben love her by any means necessary. Just like I did with Sam and Robert and Jeremy and Ethan. 

"I met Mr. Mystery tonight," I tell her. 

"No need to get out the old mystery notebook then," Mallory brings the cigarette to her lips and inhales, then blows the smoke away from me. "So, who is he?" 

"Someone we know," 

Mallory scrunches her face. "We know him? Isn't his name Nicholas? I don't know anyone named that. Unless your mom's dating my brother," 

"He's more commonly known as Nick. Or to us, Mr. Prezzioso," 

Mallory chokes on the smoke she just inhaled. She pounds her chest, coughing. "Your mom's dating Mr. Prezzioso? _Our_ Mr. Prezzioso?" 

"Yep," 

"I guess that makes your mom a cradle robber. Among other things. You know what this means right? Jenny Prezzioso could be your stepsister!" 

"Yes, I thought of that, thanks. What do you mean 'among other things'?" 

"Huh?" 

"You said my mom's a cradle robber among other things. What's that supposed to mean?" 

"I don't know what you're talking about, Stacey. Maybe you heard me wrong," Mallory grinds her cigarette into the picnic table. She doesn't look at me, but momentarily I see something odd pass over her face. It's gone so fast I almost wonder if I was mistaken. 

"So," says Mallory breaking the silence. "Your mom's screwing Mr. Prezzioso. Bummer." 

"She is not screwing him," I snap. 

Mallory laughs a weird, throaty laugh. "Your mom's totally screwing Jenny Prezzioso's dad!" 

"I have a lot of homework. I'll see you tomorrow, Mallory," I turn and walk away. 

Mallory hardly seems to notice. She lights another cigarette and resumes pacing. I'm so angry with Dad and Mom that I can't really muster any anger at Mallory for her weirdness. And I have too many problems crowding into my life to worry too much about Mallory. She will make her mistakes just like me. And she will learn from her mistakes just like me. And when lust fades she'll have sore knees and an empty heart. Just like me. 


	7. Chapter 7

On Friday, Mary Anne and I decide to eat lunch alone. Even though it's the coldest autumn I've experienced since moving to Connecticut, we eat outside. It's cold, but also quiet and private. There are a few other kids outside and Mary Anne and I settle at a table far from them. It was my idea to eat out here. Mary Anne and I don't have many chances to talk privately anymore. And I just can't bear another day of sitting in the cramped, hot cafeteria, laughing at jokes that aren't funny and pretending to be happy when I'm not.

Of course Mary Anne knows all about Mom and Mr. Prezzioso. I told her first thing Thursday morning when I arrived at school. (Mary Anne and I don't even have the morning and afternoon drives to and from school anymore. It's part of her punishment. I think it's silly because now Mary Anne just gets a ride with Grace who drives an almost new Corvette. Riding to school in a Corvette hardly seems like punishment to me). Mary Anne knows all the right things to say and all the right times to say nothing at all. She's sympathetic and understanding and shares a piece of my anger and disappointment. Finally I have someone truly on my side.

Mary Anne and I spread out our lunches. Mary Anne's brought leftover pizza. I have a chicken salad sandwich on a wheat roll. We stare down at our lunches and I know that like me, Mary Anne is wishing she had something warm and comforting. Mary Anne flips the hood of her ivory parka onto her head and begins unwrapping her pizza. She takes a bite and chews slowly. She's waiting for me to tell her what's on my mind.

"I've been thinking," I start, then take bite of my sandwich. Chew. Chew. Swallow. "About what Mallory said. About my mom."

Mary Anne nods and continues eating.

"Do you think...do you think Mallory knows something? Something I don't?"

Mary Anne swallows and takes a sip from her thermos. "I think Mallory's trying to psyche you out," she replies.

"You do?"

Mary Anne nods. "Yes, I do. Mallory just says weird things. She gets people worked up over nothing. I don't know, I guess she, you know, gets off on it or something. She's playing a game with you, Stacey. You shouldn't play along," Mary Anne chews for a moment, looking thoughtful. I twirl a celery stick between my fingers. Mary Anne opens her mouth, then hesitates before saying, "Do you think that maybe...maybe our friendship with Mallory has run its course?"

"I don't know...yeah, maybe,"

"It's not like we really have anything in common with her anymore. And I don't really feel like she's my friend. Not like she used to be. We've all changed a lot. Mallory just hasn't really changed for the better. I don't really...I don't really want to hang out with her anymore,"

I snap the celery stick in half. I nibble on one of the pieces. "Me either. I mean, sometimes I do. It's not like she's a horrible person. She's still fun. Sometimes. I enjoy being with her. Sometimes. Mostly, I just feel bad for her, you know? She doesn't really have any friends. Ben Hobart's a jerk and Benny Ott's an idiot. Then there's those girls she hangs around, Rachel Robinson and Mara Semple. I don't think any of them are really her friends,"

"You shouldn't be someone's friend out of guilt, Stacey. That's not fair to you or Mallory. And Mallory hasn't been much of a friend to you. A real friend wouldn't play mind games or bait you with lies about your mom," replies Mary Anne.

"I know. Let's not talk about Mallory anymore," I finish the last bites of my sandwich. Then after a long drink from my milk carton, I say to Mary Anne, "Dad and Samantha move tomorrow," and as soon as the words leave my mouth I regret them. I don't want to talk about Dad any more than I want to talk about Mallory.

"Are you going to New York?" Mary Anne asks.

"No. We have a math competition tomorrow morning against St. Francis in New Hope. Even if I had nothing to do tomorrow I wouldn't go. What am I supposed to do? Wave happily as he drives out of my life forever?" I start twirling another celery stick around my fingers. When did I pick up a nervous habit? "Mom's coming to the competition," I tell Mary Anne. I set down the celery stick, resisting the urge to play with it anymore. "She's bringing Mr. Prezzioso."

"Oh!" Mary Anne says, looking surprised. "I guess they're serious then. Is that okay with you?"

"Of course it's not okay with me," I snap.

"Sorry,"

"I don't want to talk about it anymore,"

And we don't.

* * *

Mary Anne and I are standing next to my locker, trying to thaw out and basically wasting time before sixth period French. We _hate_ French. I don't know why we signed up for a fourth year. Actually, I do know. Madame Lamar is a total incompetent and all we ever do is listen to old Vanessa Paradis tapes and watch Disney cartoons dubbed in French. It's the easiest "A" in the world, but not at all rewarding.

We wait until the last possible second to slip into the classroom. Madame Lamar's already blasting "Joe Le Taxi" which she plays so often I could sing it in my sleep. When Mary Anne and I sit down at our desks, Mary Anne covers her ears and groans. I laugh and take out my copy of Balzac's _Cousin Bette_ (which we're reading in English - in a fourth year French class). Barbara Hirsch pushes her desk over by ours. Mary Anne and I usually sit in a group with her and Price Irving.

"Did you see who's not in class?" asks Barbara.

"Unfortunately not Madame Lamar," I reply.

Barbara giggles. "No! Lauren Hoffman!"

"She's not throwing up again, is she?" I ask. Just the thought makes me ill.

"No! She's getting ready to announce the Homecoming nominations!"

Somehow I forgot that Lauren's the ASB President. I also forgot that the nominations will be announced this afternoon. Homecoming just doesn't seem very important anymore.

"I hope Grace gets nominated," says Mary Anne.

"Me too. She'll be heartbroken otherwise," I agree.

"Grace Blume? Well, I guess she'd be better than most," says Barbara. "I was pushing for you, Stacey. But Grace said you didn't want to be nominated,"

"I didn't and I don't,"

"Grace probably has a chance," Barbara says. "It's going to be hard to get a nomination though There's really only four spots available. Last year's Princess _always_ gets nominated for Queen."

I shake my head. "No one's going to vote for Dorianne Wallingford. Everyone knows about her abortion last spring since Cary Retlin bragged to the whole school about it. Her reputation will never recover,"

"Good news for Grace,"

Price drags his desk over to join us and we start discussing how much we hate the book (which really isn't the assignment). Fifteen minutes into class three chimes sound over the loudspeaker. Everyone stops talking to listen.

"Good afternoon, SHS! This is Lauren Hoffman, your ASB President. It's an exciting day at SHS. We're about to kick off Homecoming week. Thanks to all who participated in the nomination process. Now the nominees for Homecoming Prince are..."

"Cross your fingers for Grace," I tell Mary Anne as Lauren begins reading off the names for Prince and Princess. I recognize most of them.

Mary Anne crosses her fingers. It's childish, I know, but I really don't want to deal with Grace if she's _not_ nominated.

"And the nominees for King are...Pete Black...Logan Bruno...RJ Blaser...Alan Gray..." Someone at the back of the classroom starts laughing. "...and Howie Johnson!"

Barbara starts screaming because she and Howie are sort of dating. She grabs my arm and shakes it, violently. "Can you believe it?" she gushes. "I could be dating the Homecoming King!"

It's sort of embarrassing.

"And the nominees for Homecoming Queen are..." Lauren pauses dramatically because, really, these are the only nominations anyone cares about. "Margie Greene...Sheila McGregor...Cokie Mason..." I fake yawn at Mary Anne. No surprises there. Margie and Sheila are cheerleaders and extremely popular. And Cokie's almost as popular without being a cheerleader. A truly amazing feat at SHS.

"...Grace Blume..." Now it's Mary Anne's and my turn to embarrass ourselves. We grab each other's hands and shriek. Price Irving looks disgusted. Clearly he wishes he'd joined a different group.

Lauren pauses again before the final nomination. She raises her voice and cries, "...and Mary Anne Spier!"

I gasp, my hand flying to my mouth. Barbara's jaw drops. Mary Anne's eyes kind of bug out as she turns white as a sheet. The entire room falls silent. No one expected this.

Price finally breaks the silence. "Go Mary Anne!" he yells. "Our next Homecoming Queen!" The rest of the class erupts in applause. Madame Lamar dances over to our table and sings to Mary Anne in French (and I would understand the words if I had a better teacher). Mary Anne's face quickly turns from white to bright red. I hope she doesn't start crying.

"Wow, Mary Anne. Congratulations," I tell her. "This is really great! Out of all the seniors you got nominated!"

"I'm going to vote for you, Mary Anne," promises Barbara. "Finally, someone who deserves to be Homecoming Queen."

"_Mademoiselles_," Madame Lamar taps on my desk, then presses her finger to her lips. I guess she's had enough excitement.

When Madame Lamar walks back to her desk, Barbara leans over and giggles, "Ooh, shushed by Madame Lamar. What kind of example are you setting for us common folk?"

Mary Anne doesn't say anything. Her face is still bright red, but it no longer looks as if she'll burst into tears at any moment.

"Don't you want to be Homecoming Queen, Mary Anne?" I whisper.

Mary Anne shakes her head.

"Why not? You get to wear a formal gown and ride on a float and sit on a throne at the dance," The entire thing sounds right up Mary Anne's alley. She's a sucker for romance.

"Yes, I know that," hisses Mary Anne. "And I get to do it in front of the whole school, all the alumni, and the Mercer High football team!"

"Oh," I hadn't thought about that.

"I'm going to withdraw,"

"_Mademoiselles_!" warns Madame Lamar.

Mary Anne and I pick up our books. We only talk about _Cousin Bette_ for the rest of the period. When the bell rings, a few kids stop at our desks to congratulate Mary Anne. She shoots me a look as if to say, _See? This is what it'll be like._ As soon as we walk out of the classroom, Emily pounces on us. She's beaming. I haven't seen Emily so ecstatic since she scored a hundred and eight percent on Mr. Fillmore's physics final.

"Mary Anne!" she cries in an unusually loud voice. "Congratulations! Isn't it exciting?"

"Not really," mutters Mary Anne.

"What?" Emily looks shocked.

"Mary Anne doesn't want to run," I explain.

"Why not?" demands Emily. Emily doesn't approve of quitting.

"It's embarrassing! Everyone will be looking at me. Hundreds of people! And I have to stand there waving and smiling like it doesn't bother me. Besides, I'm not running against Grace. Homecoming Queen means too much to her. It means nothing to me,"

"You're being silly, Mary Anne. Who cares if people look at you? This will be good for you. You're not quitting,"

And Emily thinks I'm insensitive? Emily steps ahead of us into Miss Everhart's classroom, so Mary Anne can't argue anymore. Mary Anne, Emily, and I take our seats at the front table. Instead of taking out her statistics book, Emily lays a legal pad in front of us.

"I've already started a list of campaign ideas. I think we should begin right away. We'll make posters and banners, of course. We should invest in a button maker as well. How do you feel about baked goods? I can shuffle around my Sunday schedule to allow for some cupcake baking,"

"Claudia could help us with the posters!" I suggest.

"Good idea!" agrees Emily. She adds Claudia to the list.

"I need to sharpen my pencil," says Mary Anne.

"Hmm," says Emily when Mary Anne's out of earshot, "maybe Julie and I shouldn't have convinced so many people to vote for her."

My jaw drops. "Emily Bernstein!"

Emily shrugs. "Does Mary Anne have any special talents that we can incorporate into the campaign?"

"She knits,"

"Well, she can't knit scarves for the entire school by Friday," replies Emily. "We'll stick with baked goods."

When class begins, Miss Everhart makes Mary Anne, Pete Black, and Howie Johnson stand up, so everyone can applaud them. It's kind of ridiculous. Mary Anne turns red again. If she knew what Emily and Julie had done, she'd probably kill them.


	8. Chapter 8

By the time the bell rings, Mary Anne's color is back to normal. She even seems a little interested in Emily's growing list. And when Pete Black comes over to congratulate her, Mary Anne's "thanks!" sounds almost excited. Emily smiles at me knowingly and looks quite proud of herself. I'm getting excited myself. Barbara Hirsch is right. Mary Anne deserves to be Homecoming Queen. I just hope Grace doesn't throw a tantrum and pressure Mary Anne to drop out.

"We should get started right away," Emily tells us, as we step into the hallway.

"I'm grounded," says Mary Anne.

I smile because Mary Anne's no longer threatening to withdraw. Maybe Emily and Julie did the right thing. "This is important. Your dad and Sharon will understand," I tell her. At least her dad will.

We walk upstairs to our lockers. I trade my stats book for my calculus book (I am one of only two seniors insane enough to take two math classes in the same year) and journalism notebook. Amazingly, that's all the homework I have this weekend. I'll have plenty of time to work on Mary Anne's campaign. When I'm done at my locker, I walk around the corner to where Mary Anne, Emily, and Julie are standing by Mary Anne and Julie's lockers.

"We're going to my house to work on posters," Julie informs me.

"Oh...okay. Sounds good. Hey, has anyone seen Grace?"

As if on cue, Grace turns the corner, headed toward us. My earlier concerns melt away. Grace looks positively euphoric.

"I just called my parents!" she shrieks. "They are so thrilled! Mary Anne! Couldn't you just die? I almost did when Lauren read your name! I had no idea people were voting for you!"

"It was a shock to us all," says Julie.

"Grace, I hope you know I didn't ask anyone to nominate me. If you want, I'll withdraw from the race," Mary Anne says.

"You don't have to do that," replies Grace. "I'm relieved that I'm not competing with just a bunch of whores."

"That's not a very Christian thing to say, Grace," I tell her, rather shocked.

Grace pauses, clearly thinking. "I guess not," she replies. "But it's true,"

"I wouldn't really call Margie, Sheila, and Cokie whores..." I say.

"They totally are," Grace snaps. "But the nominees for King are the real joke. Pete, Logan, and RJ were obvious choices, but Alan Gray? And Howie Johnson!"

"Howie's a really nice guy," protests Julie. "He's really popular."

"The only reason anyone voted for him," Grace tells us, looking quite upset, "is because he's disabled. He's not going to be my escort onto the football field. He'll probably trip me with his cane!"

A few years ago, Howie was in a bad car accident that left him with a permanent limp. He walks with a cane, but as far as I know, he's never tripped anyone with it.

No one knows what to say. Only two hours she's been running for Homecoming Queen and already Grace is reverting back to her old nasty self. Grace doesn't seem to notice our complete and utter shock at her outburst. She hooks arms with Mary Anne and says, "Come on, Mary Anne. We have to get to the meeting,"

"What meeting?" asks Mary Anne.

"Weren't you listening to the announcement? All the nominees are meeting with Coach Keller and Mr. Ludwig at three. Come on, we can't be late,"

"We're going over to Julie's to start on Mary Anne's campaign," Emily tells Grace. "We can get started on yours, too."

"Oh, well..." Grace says, hesitantly. "Actually, we're having my posters professionally done. I'll come over and help with Mary Anne's though," Grace waves goodbye, then proceeds to practically drag Mary Anne down the hallway.

A thought occurs to me. Grace isn't the least bit upset about running against Mary Anne. Normally, I'd expect Grace to be causing some kind of scene. But there she is, perfectly composed and seemingly thrilled - because she doesn't think Mary Anne's any real competition. Margie, Sheila, and Cokie are absolutely competition. All three are more popular than Grace. Margie and Sheila are cheerleaders. It's hard to beat a cheerleader. Margie has gorgeous long legs and Sheila has the perfect body and Cokie's practically famous for having the largest breasts in school (which Julie swears are real because she once asked Cokie if she could touch them and Cokie let her...which is actually really weird). And Grace is quite lovely, which no one realized until she stepped out of Cokie's shadow, but lovely isn't enough. Grace has beautiful red hair and flawless pale skin, but somehow she doesn't exactly measure up to the other girls. And while Grace is the star of the tennis team and if it weren't for Julie would be the star of the swim team, somehow that seems less than anything Margie or Sheila or Cokie have accomplished at SHS. It isn't right or fair, but that's just how it is. The only girl Grace can truly outshine is Mary Anne.

Grace realizes that.

"Do you think Mary Anne has a chance?" I ask Emily and Julie while we walk out to the parking lot. Mallory doesn't need a ride today, so I'm just going to follow Emily and Julie home.

"Of course she has a chance!" cries Emily. "We wouldn't have nominated her if she didn't."

"You did that?" asks Julie's brother Paul, who's leaning against Emily's car. He's a junior and a male version of Julie. "That was dumb,"

"Shut up, Paul. What do you know about Mary Anne?" Julie snaps at him.

"I know she cried when you convinced Lauren Hoffman to announce her birthday over the morning announcements,"

"I thought she was touched," replies Julie.

"So did I," says Emily, quietly. "Mary Anne's changed a lot. We didn't mean to upset her. We just thought someone deserving should be nominated."

"And Mary Anne likes all that stuff. We thought she'd enjoy being apart of it," explains Julie. "And, we know she's been having trouble at home. Her stepmom sounds like a raging bitch."

"Our intentions were good," says Emily.

Emily and Julie look like someone just ran over their puppy. How could they honestly think Mary Anne would be thrilled about this? "Well, what's done is done," I tell them. "And Mary Anne seems sort of excited now."

"Even though Grace is our friend, I'd much rather Mary Anne win," Emily admits.

"She can win!" Julie exclaims. "Grace is right. Margie and Sheila are whores, plus they're total bitches. You know that Stacey." I had some problems with Margie and Sheila back in eighth grade. It's not that I hold a grudge against them, but I have to agree with Julie. "And all Cokie Mason has going for her," Julie continues, "are her ginormous breasts. I can fit my entire head into one cup of her bra. I know because I did it once in the locker room."

"Before or after you felt her up?" asks Emily.

"You felt up Cokie Mason?" Paul asks. "That's awesome. And really, really creepy."

"Hey, Cokie Mason is indebted to me for helping her prove that those things are real,"

"As much as I love standing around the school parking lot talking about Cokie Mason's breasts, I think we should start working on Mary Anne's campaign," I tell them.

Emily quickly agrees. Emily, Julie, and Paul get into Emily's car and I follow them in mine. Emily and Julie live on Rosedale Road. Emily's right across the street from the Marshalls and Julie lives three houses down from them. After dropping off Julie and Paul, Emily goes to her house to change. Julie decides to do the same, leaving me alone in her kitchen.

"Can I use your phone?" I ask Paul, who's also in the kitchen and eating peanut butter right out of the jar.

Paul shrugs. "Sure,"

Even though Mom and I haven't talked much since Wednesday night's dinner with Mr. Prezzioso, I feel the need to call her. I know she'll be excited about Mary Anne's news. I call her at work and I'm right. She sounds absolutely delighted. We talk for a few minutes about Mary Anne's campaign and it seems like old times, before Mr. Prezzioso, before Mom started sneaking around. I feel a pang of sadness when we hang up because I know that from now on Mom and I probably won't have many of those moments.

Next I look up Claudia's office number in the Stern's phone book. The receptionist puts me through to the mailroom. As I wait for Claudia to come on the line, I get a nervous fluttering in my stomach. It's strange calling Claudia. I haven't done so in a long time. I know that we'll always be friends - not best friends, not close friends, but some sort of friends. Claudia and I could not see each other for years, then meet accidentally and it wouldn't seem like all those years had passed. And still I feel strange calling Claudia up and asking a favor when, for all outward appearances, we aren't really friends.

Claudia for her part doesn't act like it's odd that I'm calling. She squeals when I tell her about Mary Anne (it seems everyone is ecstatic _but_ Mary Anne) and promises to be at Julie's house no later than four-thirty. Then we hang up because there's really nothing more for us to discuss.

Right when I hang up, Emily and Julie walk into the kitchen. I guess they changed, but to me they look exactly the same (Julie in faded jeans and a white thermal, Emily in tan slacks and a striped button-up). I get my keys and drive us downtown. Our first stop is the art supply store where we buy poster paints, poster board, construction paper, markers, and a roll of butcher paper. Emily suggests that instead of using the school colors (navy and red) in Mary Anne's campaign, we choose something different that'll stand out. After much debate, we decide on pink and silver because those seem like very Mary Anne-ish colors. After the art supply store, we head to the A&P (and thankfully Sam isn't working) where we stock up on cupcake mixes, tubs of frosting, and silver foil cupcake holders. I pay for everything with Dad's credit card, which Emily disapproves of, but Julie finds hysterical.

Our errands completed, we drive back to Julie's house. As soon as I turn onto Rosedale Road, I see Grace's white Corvette parked outside Julie's house. Mary Anne and Grace are sitting in the car, Grace talking animatedly and Mary Anne looking annoyed.

"What's wrong?" I ask Mary Anne as we start unloading my car.

"Nothing," she replies, still looking annoyed. She tucks the roll of butcher paper under her arm and follows Julie into the house.

"Can I use your phone?" Grace asks Julie when we're all in the house. "I need to tell my mom about the meeting."

Julie nods. "Sure. In the kitchen,"

I watch Grace disappear through the kitchen door, then turn to Mary Anne. "Okay, Mary Anne, what's wrong? Are you mad at Grace?"

Mary Anne shakes her head and starts clearing off the Sterns' coffee table. "Not mad," she finally tells us. "Just surprised...and disappointed."

"What did she do?" asks Julie.

Mary Anne sighs and sits down on an ottoman. She rests her chin in the palm of her hand. "Well...so we went to the meeting, right? Coach Keller and Mr. Ludwig are in charge of Homecoming Court and they went over all the rules and procedures and stuff. You know, what we can and can't wear, where to show up and when. Stuff like that. Then they dismissed the Prince and Princess nominees and told the rest of us we needed to decide who would walk onto the football field together on Friday night. Of course, I did _not_ want to be paired with Logan or Pete. Logan and I have been over a long time, but that'd just be too weird. And I don't need Pete getting any ideas about us going out again,"

I give Mary Anne a funny look, but she doesn't notice. She's never said anything to me about Pete wanting to get back together.

"First thing," continues Mary Anne," Cokie says there's no way Logan's escorting her anywhere."

I laugh. Cokie and Logan went about for about three weeks in ninth grade. During Spring Fling week, Cokie was at the Marching Band bake sale, eating her fourth or fifth brownie. Logan told her to stop stuffing her face because she was getting fat. Cokie shoved him into the pie table. She hasn't liked him since.

"And then, Cokie said Howie Johnson wasn't escorting her anywhere either and Grace agreed! She said he would trip her with his cane,"

"Wait," interrupts Emily, "they said this _in front_ of Howie?"

"Yes! He was sitting right there! They said it really nastily too. I haven't heard Grace or even Cokie sound like that in a long time. It was horrible. No one said anything. We were just stunned. Howie looked really hurt. Finally Sheila said she's be happy to be Howie's partner. I should have volunteered, but Grace just left me speechless. We paired off pretty fast after that. The rest of the meeting was so uncomfortable though. If Homecoming's going to bring out the worst in people, then I really don't want to be apart of it,"

Emily, Julie, and I don't know what to say. I'm so disappointed in Grace. I can tell Emily and Julie are too. Grace isn't perfect. She can still be mean and rude, but not downright cruel. Obviously, Grace isn't the person we thought her to be.

"So, who's your escort?" Emily finally asks.

Mary Anne sighs. "It's Margie and Logan, Sheila and Howie, Grace and Pete, RJ and Cokie, and me and..."

"Alan Gray," I groan.

Emily and Julie groan too. Mary Anne nods, no longer looking annoyed, but rather miserable. Grace bursts into the living room, practically glowing, and oblivious to the living room's somber atmosphere.

"Mom and I are going shopping in New York tomorrow!" she announces. "Mom says I have to find the perfect dress! You can come too, Mary Anne, if you like."

I half-expect the new nasty Grace to add, _we'll even go to the low-end stores for you_, but instead Grace sits on the floor beside the coffee table and asks, "What are we doing?"

"Yeah, I guess we should get started," Julie replies. "Let me go get my stuff." She stands up and leaves the room. When she returns she's carrying a tackle box and a paper cutter. She sets the paper cutter on the coffee table, then unpacks the tackle box. It's filled with colored pencils and stencils and different pairs of scissors. Julie isn't the _Gazette_ layout artist for nothing. She already knows the exact design for Mary Anne's campaign posters. Julie puts me and Emily to work stenciling and cutting different sized stars. Mary Anne and Grace are assigned the task of stenciling and cutting out letters.

"When you finish all the stars," Julie explains, bringing down the handle of the paper cutter and slicing a piece of pink construction paper in half, "we'll wrap them in aluminum foil. We'll kind of crinkle it up. It'll look great, Mary Anne. I have paint pens we can use on the letters."

The five of us work quietly, concentrating on our assignments until the doorbell rings. I check my watch. It's four forty-five.

"It's Claudia!" I announce, jumping up to answer the door.

Claudia's standing on the front stoop with Erica Blumberg. They each have a paper bag in their arms.

"Hi! I hope you guys don't mind that Erica came along. She wants to help, too," Claudia rushes passed me into the living room and dumps the contents of her paper bag on the floor.

"Thanks for coming, Claud," says Mary Anne. "You too, Erica."

"No problem. Congratulations Mary Anne! And Grace! Erica and I brought practically all my art supplies. What have you done so far?"

Julie shows Claudia our first completed poster. It's very clean and neat looking. We glued on several of the aluminum stars around the words "Mary Anne For Homecoming Queen".

"What's this blank white square in the corner?" asks Claudia.

"That's for Mary Anne's photo," I explain. "We're going to Copy City tomorrow to have some printed."

Claudia studies the poster and nods. "Looks good so far. I brought some glitter glue. We can make this star in the middle look like a shooting star. I also brought a bunch of fabric scraps and ribbons and beads. We can make some really eclectic posters, too."

"What's wrong with this one?" demands Julie.

"We can have more than one poster design, Julie," I tell her. We don't need a battle of the artists on our hands.

Julie blushes slightly. "Oh, I know. Sorry, Claudia."

"It's okay," Claudia replies. Claud and Erica set a blank poster board next to the one Julie's working on. They begin working on their own design. Julie doesn't say another negative word, not even when Claudia covers the poster board in neon pink fabric and staples tissue paper flowers to it.

"When are you getting your dresses?" Erica asks after we've been working for awhile.

"My mom and I are going to New York tomorrow," replies Grace. "Mary Anne might come with us."

"I don't think so," says Mary Anne, carefully tracing the "M" of her name with a glitter glue pen. "I'm not going to spend a fortune on a dress. I'll probably just buy one from Bellair's. Besides, I'm still grounded. Dad thinks I'm here working on a school project,"

"I could make you a dress," suggests Claudia. "I've been taking sewing classes. I made these pants." Claudia lifts one of the legs of her neon green parachute pants. "I've been making kimonos based on old pictures of Mimi. My family's going to Japan over Janine's winter break, so I'm emerging myself in the culture."

"Immersing," corrects Erica.

"Whatever. I could make a dress for you just like the one in _Pretty in Pink_! I know how much you love that movie, Mary Anne,"

"Uh...thanks, Claud. I'll think about it," says Mary Anne.

After that all the awkwardness melts away. I had worried that things with Claudia would be weird. Instead, everything clicks. Soon we're laughing and joking and having a great time. If there's any leftover tension between Mary Anne and Grace, I don't feel it. Around five-thirty, Julie's parents come home from work. Right away they unroll the butcher paper and help Julie with Mary Anne's banner. Eventually, Mr. Bernstein comes looking for Emily. I don't say anything since I've vowed to be sensitive to Emily's religious practices. After she leaves, we decide to order chinese food from Uncle Ed's. (Again I pay with Dad's credit card. I wonder how long before he catches on and cancels it).

While eating our chinese food, we discuss Homecoming and all the upcoming activities. Julie and Grace call Margie and Sheila whores a few more times. Julie tells everyone (for the hundredth time) about putting her head in Cokie Mason's bra. Then Erica reminds everyone that Monday is Pajama Day and Mary Anne nearly has a stroke. We stay late into the evening, working on the posters and laughing, and it all feels so natural and normal, like this is how our lives should be at any given moment, which is funny because these days I feel anything but normal.


	9. Chapter 9

Homecoming Week kicks off first thing Monday morning. Since Emily, Julie, and Paul arrive at school practically at the crack of dawn (so Emily can get a jump on her day), they volunteered to hang Mary Anne's banners and some of the posters. Apparently, other candidates had the same idea and Julie and Margie Greene's dad almost got into a fistfight over a spot on the cafeteria wall. Somehow Julie won. Once that was done, Emily and Julie set up the Sterns' card table outside the journalism room and began setting out all the cupcakes they'd made Sunday night. The cupcakes have pink frosting with "Vote Mary Anne" written in teeny tiny black lettering.

That's where Mary Anne, Grace, and I find them when we finally arrive at school (twenty-five minutes early, thank you!) We're all carrying boxes of even more cupcakes. Mary Anne and I spent most of the weekend in my kitchen baking (Mary Anne's dad was so thrilled about her nomination he lifted most of the restrictions of her grounding, but not riding to school with me. I'm sure we have Sharon to thank for that).

"Julie and I didn't bring enough cupcakes," Emily tells us. "We've given out about forty so far! Not counting the five Paul ate. Or the six Julie ate."

"_You_ aren't supposed to eat the cupcakes, Julie!" I scold her.

"Why not? Mary Anne hasn't won my vote yet. I need incentive. Got any free stuff for me, Grace?"

"Yes, I do," replies Grace, setting her box of cupcakes on the floor beside Emily's feet. Grace unzips her backpack and takes out a small basket (yes, a basket. How that fit in her back pack, I have no idea). "Here you are, Julie," Grace says, cheerily, handing Julie a candy bar wrapped in green foil.

"Hey, this is neat!" Julie exclaims. "It says 'Grace for Homecoming Queen' on it! Where'd you get this?"

"My parents had them made,"

I narrow my eyes and snatch one of the candy bars from her basket. "When did they have these made? Over the weekend?"

"Well..."

"You had them made _before_?" I ask.

"Shh!" hisses Grace. "The whole school doesn't have to know!"

"This is insane, Grace," I tell her, handing back the candy bar.

"Don't worry, Stacey, I have something for you too," Grace hands me a lime green pencil with "Vote For Grace" written on it. Unbelievable.

"I like your candy bars, Grace," says Mary Anne.

"Thank you," replies Grace, glaring at me. "Now no one has said anything about my posters,"

"I just met you in the parking lot. When did you have time to put up posters?" I ask.

"The boys tennis team did it for me," Grace explains. "See?" She points behind her. There's a gigantic poster all in white and dark green. At the center are photos of Grace - Grace playing tennis, Grace at a swim meet, Grace working in her church's soup kitchen, Grace playing with a dog. I guess we know why Grace didn't need any help with her campaign posters. There's no telling how long these had been sitting around her house.

"Gee, Grace, where's the photo of you with your halo?" Julie snickers. "And you don't have a dog."

"It's my grandmother's," Grace replies, haughtily. "Excuse me, but I have campaigning to do." Grace turns and flounces off down the hallway, her navy blue silk robe billowing behind her. (It is Pajama Day, after all).

"She's unbelievable," I say.

"Not really," Emily replies. "Cokie Mason's outside the gym handing out t-shirts with her photo on them."

"I don't feel right campaigning against Grace," Mary Anne says, quietly.

"Nonsense," says Emily.

"Grace really wants this. I don't. I think I should stop campaigning,"

"Nonsense," repeats Emily.

Mary Anne shrugs, appearing unconvinced. If she changes her mind every five minutes throughout the week I'll probably kill her.

"Does everyone like my pajamas?" I ask them, changing the subject. I decided to embrace Homecoming Week even though normally I think the dress up days are stupid. I need some fun in my life. So today I wore a pair of old red flannel pajamas and a red plaid bathrobe. Neither Mary Anne or Emily dressed up. (Mary Anne has a long-time fear of being seen in her pajamas. She nearly started a revolution over it in middle school). Julie's wearing a gray velour jogging outfit that are either her pajamas or a very bad fashion statement.

"I can't believe you wore your pajamas to school!" exclaims Mary Anne.

"I think Stacey looks cute," says Emily.

"Thank you, Emily. At least Julie and I have some school spirit. A future Homecoming Queen should set a better example,"

"Huh?" says Julie. "I'm not wearing my pajamas."

Mary Anne and I look at each other and giggle. "Okay, girls, Mary Anne and I are going to finish putting up her posters. We'll see you in journalism,"

Emily smiles. "Okay! We'll stay here until the bell rings,"

As Mary Anne and I are walking away, we hear Julie yell, "Hey! Kid! Get over here and take a cupcake. Vote for Mary Anne Spier!"

Mary Anne and I bust up laughing.

* * *

I keep busy the rest of the day campaigning for Mary Anne. I talk to so many kids about Mary Anne that I actually get sick of talking about Mary Anne. At lunch, Mary Anne and Erica Blumberg sit outside the cafeteria giving away the rest of the cupcakes. It's okay when they run out because there's still about four dozen more at my house. I spend lunch walking around with Grace, handing out her pencils and candy bars. I don't want Grace to think I'm playing favorites, even though I am. Grace isn't stupid. She knows my loyalty is to Mary Anne.

The dual campaigns are a welcome distraction. I have much less time to worry about my after school life. I haven't heard from Dad. I realized on the drive to school that I don't have his new address or telephone number. I guess he doesn't care if I call him. Or maybe he knows I won't. Mom and I haven't talked about it. We're both avoiding the subject. A week ago, I didn't mind Mom badmouthing Dad. This week it's different. She's been just as unfair and selfish as him. Deep down she must know that, otherwise she'd be trying to track him down in order to yell at him for making her track him down. Another one of those fights about me that's not really about me. It must be burdensome carrying around all that hatred for someone. I'm so sick of it. I'm so over it.

After school all the candidates have their pictures taken for the _Gazette_. We're having a special Homecoming edition that will come out on Wednesday. It'll feature pictures of each candidate and a little blurb about them. Rick Chow's the _Gazette_'s photographer and he lets me help him set up for the photo shoot. (Math Club was canceled. After an embarrassing defeat by St. Francis on Saturday I don't think Miss Everhart could bear to look at us). Rick takes the whole thing very seriously, like he's a real photographer or something. The shoot's out in the middle of the quad by the only plants that haven't completely died yet. All the girls are shivering, except Mary Anne who's the only one with enough sense to dress appropriate to the season. She looks very nice in a pair of gray slacks and a lavender argyle sweater over a lavender striped blouse.

The only other girl in pants is Cokie Mason who's wearing black slacks and a white sweater. Classy? Not really. Her sweater has the deepest scoop-neck I've ever seen and she keeps leaning forward, so the camera gets the best shot of her cleavage. Margie and Sheila both have on dresses with skirts so short they can barely sit down. Their poses look quite awkward as they attempt to not flash their thongs at the camera. Matching Mary Anne's normalcy and good taste, Grace has changed out of her silk pajamas and into a light green floral-print skirt and a light green sweater. (Apparently, green is the color of her entire campaign). She has her long red hair brushed neatly over one shoulder. She looks very classic and elegant. She looks like a Homecoming Queen.

Perhaps I underestimated Grace just as Grace underestimated Mary Anne.

"I should have worn a skirt," Mary Anne tells me when Rick's finished photographing the Queen candidates. "I look babyish."

"No, you don't. You look warm and age-appropriate," I assure her.

"We should feel good, Mary Anne, that we didn't make fools of ourselves by compromising our morals. We'll be the only girls in this weeks _Gazette_ who don't look like cheap whores," says Grace.

"You've been throwing around that word a lot lately," I tell Grace.

"Who are you? The morality police?" snaps Grace.

"No, I thought that was you,"

Grace doesn't say anything.

We walk back into the main building and go into one of the downstairs bathrooms. Mary Anne and Grace disappear into two stalls while I brush my hair at the sink.

"I forgot to tell you on Friday," Grace says from inside the stall. It creeps me out when people talk while using the restroom. It's probably why it takes Grace three times as long as anyone else. If she'd just do her business instead of carrying on conversations she'd finish in a timely manner.

"Tell us what?" asks Mary Anne coming out of her stall.

"I saw Dorianne Wallingford in the bathroom after sixth period. She was crying her eyes out over not being nominated for Queen. What did she expect? I can't believe I forgot to tell you,"

I put my brush back in my book bag. "I feel bad for Dorianne. It's not really fair, is it? It's not like she's the only person at SHS who's having sex. And she's not the only girl who's had an abortion. No one would know if not for disgusting Cary Retlin and his macho pride,"

"I don't feel sorry for Dorianne one bit," replies Grace finally coming out of the stall. She walks to the sink beside me and begins washing her hands. "She shouldn't have had premarital sex and she shouldn't have had an abortion. She has no one to blame but herself,"

"I think you're being too harsh, Grace," says Mary Anne.

Grace sort of thrusts her nose in the air. She takes out her own brush and runs it through her red mane. "There are consequences for every sin," she says. "A person can't hide forever."

Mary Anne and I just look at her in the mirror. Grace's pale cheeks redden slightly and a brief look of embarrassment passes over her face. Good. Maybe next time she'll think before saying something stupid and judgmental.

The bathroom door swings open. "There you are!" yells Mallory. "I've been looking for you everywhere! Mr. Shelby got food poisoning so he canceled detention. I saw your car in the parking lot. I need a ride."

"Can't Ben Hobart give you a lift on his bike?" asks Grace.

Mallory's face clouds. "No! I'm not speaking to Ben Hobart. Not ever again!"

"Why not?" asks Mary Anne.

I groan, inwardly. Doesn't Mary Anne know better by now?

"Yesterday, when Mom and I went shoe shopping, Ben took Mara Semple to the movies! They were making out in front of everyone! Vanessa and Haley saw them. Why would Ben do this to me?" Mallory turns to me. "Why do girls mess with other girls' boyfriends?"

"Gee, Mallory, I don't know," I reply, snapping my compact shut and slipping it back into my bag.

"Oh, I just thought you would," says Mallory, coolly. "Because of your mom and everything."

"What is that supposed to mean?" I demand.

Mallory folds her arms across her chest and looks away. "Nothing,"

"No, it's something. You've been making veiled comments about my mom all week. What's your problem?"

Grace and Mary Anne pause in their hairbrushing to stare at us.

"What's your problem, Mallory?" I repeat.

Mallory finally looks at me. Her eyes are cold and furious. "What's my problem? You want to know what my problem is? Your mom slept with my dad!"

Grace drops her hairbrush in the sink.

"She did not!" I yell. "You're a liar, Mallory Pike!"

"I am not!"

"Stacey's mom wouldn't do that, Mallory," Mary Anne says, quietly.

"Are you that jealous of Stacey you have to make up lies about her mom?" asks Grace.

"I'm not lying! Your mom slept with my dad! I overheard Mom telling Mrs. DeWitt about it. She was crying and saying she didn't know what she was going to do. And you're so upset about your mom dating Mr. Prezzioso. At least she waited that marriage out!"

"When would my mom have time to sleep with your dad? She's been dating Mr. Prezzioso for over a month!"

"This happened a long time ago!"

"And you're just now bringing it up?"

"She just now thought it up," says Grace. "Ignore her, Stacey."

"Shut up, Grace," snaps Mallory. "This is none of your business,"

"Oh, go blow Ben Hobart,"

"Shut up, both of you!" I shout. "I'm not listening to these lies about my mom. I don't believe you, Mallory. My mom isn't a whore. She's not a homewrecker. Grace is right. You _are_ jealous of me. I can't believe I put up with your crap for so long. Get out of my face, Mallory. We're not friends anymore."

"You're just mad because you know I'm right!" exclaims Mallory. "Your mom's a whore and everyone knows it! Better watch out, Mary Anne. Mrs. McGill will be after your dad next. She probably uses the old BSC record book as her whoring checklist!"

Something in me snaps. Everything from the last week - Dad's news, our fight, Mom's sneaking around with Mr. Prezzioso - Mallory's the last straw. I snap. I drop my book bag and lunge at her. Mallory looks surprised. I shove her to the bathroom floor. Mary Anne screams. Mallory doesn't stay surprised long. She pulls my hair, scratches at my face. Mostly we roll on the (absolutely filthy) floor, kicking and shrieking and pulling at each other's hair. As far as fights go, it's a pretty lame one.

Then Mallory picks up her backpack and hits me across the face with it.

I fall back, stunned. It takes me a moment to realize there's blood running down my face.

"What did you do to her, Mallory?" Mary Anne screams, rushing over to me.

"The zipper on my backpack's broken," says Mallory, looking as stunned as I feel.

I touch the cut above my left eye. I wouldn't have thought a broken zipper could cut so deep.

"You're going to need stitches," says Mary Anne, panic rising in her voice. "This is a lot of blood! We need to stop the bleeding!"

The next thing I know, Grace pulls off her sweater and shoves it in my face, pressing hard on the cut. It hurts. I almost cry.

"Wait until we tell Mrs. Monroe," Grace hisses. Mrs. Monroe is our principal. "You'll be expelled from your second school in two years." At first I'm confused. I think she's talking to me. I push the sweater out of my eyes (why didn't Grace get paper towel?) Grace is knelt beside me, glaring at Mallory, who's paler than usual.

"I'm sorry, Stacey," she whispers.

"For mutilating my face or for telling lies about my mother?" I snap.

Mallory bursts into tears and runs out of the bathroom. I don't feel sorry for her at all.

"We need to get you to the emergency room," says Mary Anne, helping me to my feet. She looks calmer. Probably because I haven't passed out.

Mary Anne and Grace lead me out of the bathroom and into the deserted parking lot. I still have Grace's sweater pressed against my forehead. Grace puts our bags in the trunk of her Corvette. Mary Anne and I have to share the passenger seat. It's uncomfortable, but we've done it before. Grace pulls out of the parking lot and starts in the direction of Stoneybrook General.

"I don't want to go to the hospital," I blurt out.

"What?" Mary Anne and Grace cry in unison.

"I don't want to go to the hospital," I repeat.

"Why not?" demands Mary Anne.

Several reasons. The hospital will try to call my mom. She's in Stamford for the day at some buyer's meeting. When the hospital's not able to find her, they'll want to call Dad. What am I supposed to say? _Sorry, don't have his phone number_. _Sorry, don't know how to find him_. How humiliating. I bite my lower lip to keep from crying. Even when he's not in it, Dad manages to make my life worse.

And maybe I don't want Mallory expelled again. Our friendship is over, I know that. I could never see her again and that would be fine. But maybe I don't want to punish her. Maybe her life is already bad enough.

"I just don't want to," I say. "Let's go to your house, Grace."

I expect Grace to protest. Instead she quickly flips a U-turn in the middle of Cherry Valley Road (luckily there are no cops around) and heads toward Locust Avenue. Mary Anne huffs, but doesn't say anything. It's only a couple minutes to Grace's house. Her parents are still at work, so the house is empty. Grace takes us to her room, then goes in search of a first aid kit.

"Mallory's lying," Mary Anne tells me.

"I know," but I'm no longer so sure.

Grace returns with a bottle of peroxide and a first aid kit. Mary Anne holds my hand while Grace dabs at the cut with a Q-tip. It stings, but I don't make a fuss. I just squeeze Mary Anne's hand.

"It doesn't look that bad," says Grace. "Sometimes superficial cuts bleed worse than others." Grace takes a piece of white gauze from the first aid kit and presses it over my cut. She tapes it in place. "You'll be fine," she announces.

Fine. Right.

"It's cold in here," says Grace, standing up and walking to her dresser. I realize that she's only wearing a thin white tank top. I was busy bleeding all over her sweater. Grace takes another green sweater out of her dresser and pulls it over her head. "This look all right?" she asks.

"Great," I reply.

"Do you want to go to the Merry-Go-Round?" Grace asks. "I need new barrettes for Homecoming."

"Grace!" Mary Anne exclaims.

Somehow Grace senses what I need and not Mary Anne. "No, it's okay, Mary Anne," I say. "I want to go to the Merry-Go-Round." There's no use sitting around moping and letting in thoughts I don't want to think.

Mary Anne calls her dad at work, then Grace drives us to the Merry-Go-Round, which is in downtown Stoneybrook. We spend about half an hour there, browsing through earrings and barrettes and trying on hats. We giggle a lot, but awkwardly. The scene in the bathroom hangs over us, even though we're pretending it's not. Grace doesn't buy any barrettes, but Mary Anne buys a silver kitten keychain for her backpack. Afterward we go to Argo for sodas, but sodas somehow turn into cheeseburgers and curly fries. We spend most of the time talking about Homecoming. No one mentions Mallory or Mom. Potentially adulterous mothers don't make good small talk.

"Grandma and I are going to Bellair's later," Mary Anne tells me when we drop her off at her house, "if you want to come."

"No thanks. I have a lot of homework,"

"All right. I'll call you later, Stace. Bye Grace,"

Grace drives me back to the school parking lot to pick up my car. It's the only car left in the parking lot. Grace pulls into the spot beside it. We sit silently for awhile.

"Grace, promise you won't - "

"Mallory Pike is a liar," she interrupts. "There's no point spreading her lies."

I smile, weakly. "Thanks Grace,"

Grace nods. "I'm very good at keeping secrets," she says.

We say goodbye and I get out of the car. When I pull into my driveway, Mom's car is in the garage. I check my watch. It's five forty-five. It seems earlier. I walk into the house and call for her. I don't know what I'll say. Nothing, I guess. Just act like everything's normal. Mom doesn't respond to my calls. I walk into the kitchen, following the scent of spaghetti sauce simmering on the stove. Through the kitchen window I see Mom standing outside by the fence, talking to Mr. Pike.

There's a tightening in my chest. I just stand there, watching them. They're laughing and Mom's brushing her hair out of her eyes. They look so casual, even though they're both still in their work clothes. I wonder if Mallory's watching them, too. Or maybe Mrs. Pike.

"What were you talking to Mr. Pike about?" I demand when Mom comes in the house, her face red from the cold.

Mom's surprised. "What? We were discussing the fence. It's falling down,"

"The fence? That's an odd thing to discuss as soon as you get home from work,"

"I came home and John was standing out there looking at it. I've been meaning to talk to him about when we should fix it. Is there something wrong, Stacey?"

"No," I mumble. It's just a fence. Completely innocent.

"What happened to your head?" Mom cries, pushing back the hair that I tried to hide the bandage behind.

I won't sink to her level. Or Dad's. I'm not going to be like them. "Mallory Pike did it. She's crazy, Mom. I'd be careful,"

Mom looks furious. "Mallory Pike did this? I'm calling Dee Pike right now," Mom grabs the phone off the wall.

"I don't think you should," I tell her.

Mom turns her back on me. "Hello, John?" Mom says into the receiver. "This is Maureen. Is Dee home?"

I leave the kitchen and walk upstairs. I don't close the door to my bedroom. As soon as I start my chemistry homework, downstairs Mom starts shouting at Mrs. Pike.


	10. Chapter 10

Mom invites Mr. Prezzioso to dinner Thursday night. It's been a week since the shocking and slightly terrifying revelation of their relationship. Mom acts like it's been longer, like it's normal for Mr. Prezzioso to be apart of our lives. Mom's wrong. It's not normal. Maybe Mom thinks it's easier this way, that if she doesn't make a big deal of it, then I won't either. Mom's wrong again. There's nothing easier about any of it. I'm so tired of pretending everything's normal. 

Normal is how I act at school. I smile in the hallways and raise my hand in class and dress up every day according to the Homecoming schedule. And inside I'm screaming and crying and thinking how fake it all is. This must be how Emily Bernstein feels, like the world's spinning out of control and she's juggling all these balls and if she drops them, that's it, everything's over. So she keeps juggling and smiling in a silent panic. That's how I feel. I'm juggling all these emotions and worries and secrets and if they come out into the open...what? I guess I understand Emily a little better now. I know why she needs to maintain some semblance of control. I should be nicer to her. 

I keep saying to myself, _things can't get worse_, but a nagging voice in my head just whispers back, _yes, they can._ As much as I hate to admit it, I know the voice is right. There's a sort of fog settling over Stoneybrook, darkening it and our lives. Maybe the fog's always been there and I was just too naive to notice. However long it's been there, I suspect it's hiding other things, secrets that are slowly rising to the surface, threatening to break free. 

I haven't said anything to Mom. What am I supposed to say? _Hey, Mom, Mallory Pike says you screwed her dad, what do you have to say for yourself?_ I don't think there's proper etiquette for informing someone they've been accused of adultery. After her shouting match with Mrs. Pike ("It's your daughter's fault!" "No, it's yours!"), Mom wanted to know what the fight was _really_ about. Of course, I couldn't tell her. Finally, she accepted "Mallory's crazy" as an explanation. I should have told her the truth. A good daughter would have. Half of me knows Mom's innocent. My mother would never do such a thing. Mallory Pike is a liar. But then...the other half of me worries that perhaps Mom isn't the person I thought. She kept Mr. Prezzioso a secret. What else is she hiding? It's awful and horrible and disloyal. I shouldn't doubt her. She shouldn't have made me doubt her. 

I'm not a very good daughter. 

All these things rush through my mind as I mash the potatoes for dinner. Mom and Mr. Prezzioso are in the dining room, setting the table and laughing. They like each other a lot. I can tell. That doesn't make it right. It's still creepy and awkward and...wrong. At least Mom hasn't had him stay overnight. Talk about creepy and awkward. 

"Nick and I are ready to eat," Mom says, walking into the kitchen. 

"Okay," I reply, scraping the mashed potatoes into a glass bowl. I carry it into the dining room and set it on the table. Mom and Mr. Prezzioso are already seated at the table. We pass around the meatloaf, the rolls, the mashed potatoes and it's all as awkward as the last time. Mom brought Mr. Prezzioso to my math competition (the one we lost in a terrible, embarrassing defeat) on Saturday. Afterward we went to lunch and it was just like now. Uncomfortable with long silences broken up by pointless small talk. I guess I make Mr. Prezzioso as uncomfortable as he makes me. 

"How was school?" Mr. Prezzioso asks me after another long silence. 

I shrug. "All right. We had club sales at lunch. Mary Anne and I rolled crepes for French Club. Tomorrow I'm selling apple cider for Math Club. Oh, and Julie Stern tried to start a rumor that Cokie Mason was flashing boys behind the gym in exchange for Homecoming votes," 

Mr. Prezzioso chokes on his mashed potatoes. 

"Stacey!" Mom cries, dropping her fork. 

"What? He asked about school and that's the most exciting thing that happened today," 

"Well, I don't think it's appropriate dinner conversation," 

_And what is_, I almost say, _your affair with Mr. Pike?_ Alleged affair, alleged affair. I have to keep reminding myself. 

I take another stab at small talk and recount the second most exciting thing that happened today. Julie and the rest of the varsity volleyball team walked in on Margie Greene and Darcy Redmond attempting to tear Mary Anne's banner off the gym wall. So the entire team pelted them with volleyballs and locked them out of the gym. Then they threw Margie's and Darcy's backpacks in the dumpster behind the cafeteria, which is particularly disgusting since today the cafeteria served spaghetti and meatballs. Mr. Prezzioso sees the humor in the story, even though Mom doesn't. 

"I'm not sure Julie Stern's such a good influence," Mom says. 

"There's nothing wrong with Julie Stern," I reply, testily. "She was just standing up for Mary Anne." 

Mom gives me a reproachful look, then directs her attention to Mr. Prezzioso. "How was work today?" she asks him. 

Before Mr. Prezzioso can answer, the phone rings. "Excuse me," says Mom, pushing back her chair. "I'm expecting a call." Mom disappears into the kitchen. She's back less than a minute later. "Stacey, phone. Don't be long," 

I walk into the kitchen and pick up the phone from the counter. "Hello, this is Stacey," I say into the receiver. 

"Hi, Stacey?" replies a boy's voice. "This is Price Irving...from French class." 

"Hello, Price Irving from French class," I laugh. "Thanks for identifying yourself so specifically. I might have confused you with one of the many other Prices I know." 

"What? Oh," Price chuckles, nervously. "So, Stacey, I know this is kind of short notice, but I heard you don't have a date for Homecoming. Do you want to go with me?" 

"With you?" I repeat, surprised. Price has never seemed particularly interested in me. Even after four years of French class together, he's never been very friendly. Could he have harbored a secret crush on me all these years? "Sorry, Price, but I'm going with Mary Anne and Julie." I don't need a boy further complicating my already complicated life. Especially one I'm not the least bit interested in. 

"I understand, Stacey," Price says, sounding disappointed. 

"Thanks for asking. Maybe next time. Um...I'll see you tomorrow," 

Price and I say goodbye and hang up. 

"Who was that?" Mom asks when I sit down at the table. 

"Just a kid from French class," I reply. 

After dinner Mom and Mr. Prezzioso decide to go to Bellair's to buy Mr. Prezzioso new jogging shoes. (Their relationship really is exciting, isn't it?) Mom's thrilled when I decide to go too. I guess she sees it as an important step that I'm willing to be seen in public with her and Mr. Prezzioso (and if anyone does see us I'll die) and not as the truth, which is that I need new shoes for Homecoming and Mom's less likely to say no if Mr. Prezzioso's there. 

--- 

Friday morning, the day of Homecoming, starts off with a pep rally. I remember being really into pep rallies freshman year. Now they all seem the same. Emily, Julie, Erica, and I sit in the fifth row where we'll have the best view of Mary Anne and Grace during the King and Queen candidate presentations. On the other side of the gym in the sophomore section, Mallory Pike and Ben Hobart are in the top row making out. I roll my eyes. The rally starts off like all the others, mostly cheerleaders and boring speeches and Lauren Hoffman summarizing Homecoming Week, like anyone needs reminding that Wednesday was Twin Day or that Alan Gray accidentally set himself on fire at the Art Club's burrito sale. 

After her speech, Lauren announces the winners of Homecoming Prince and Princess. We voted for Prince and Princess yesterday during sixth period. I don't even remember who I voted for. Our new Homecoming Prince is a football player and the Homecoming Princess is a cheerleader named Anne Kennedy. I know her. Sort of. She's the kind of girl who deserves to win. Everyone stands and applauds as Pete Black and Dorianne Wallingford, last year's Prince and Princess, crown what's-his-name and Anne. Anne cries and Dorianne looks as if she might, too. I doubt from happiness. A disgraced cheerleader is a sad sight. 

Next Lauren brings out the King and Queen candidates. They line up in pairs. Mary Anne and Alan are at the end of the line, the farthest from where we're sitting. Even from a distance I can see that Mary Anne's struggling to mask her misery as she stands arm in arm with Alan. Her smile wavers slightly and her cheeks slowly turn pink. I'm not sure if it's the eyes of the crowd or the fact that Alan Gray's wearing a gray derby hat and a kilt. 

"I think Mary Anne's going to faint," whispers Erica. 

"She's fine. This is good for her," I assure Erica. I hope I'm right. 

Lauren introduces each pair starting with Margie and Logan. Each pair walks out onto the gym floor, smiling and waving, while Lauren reads a brief bio about them. Grace and Pete are second to last. When Lauren calls their names, Grace strides forward confidently, smiling brightly and looking absolutely natural like every day of her life people cheer and applaud for her. The contrast to Mary Anne is unbelievable. When Mary Anne and Alan step forward, Mary Anne looks as if she's either going to throw up or collapse into tears. She keeps a smile plastered on her face and waves like she's supposed, but I know her well enough to see the panic subtly etched on her face. It doesn't help when Alan drops her arm and begins spinning around, pointing to kids in the bleachers, then sashays back into line without her. Mary Anne's face flushes bright pink as she hurries to her spot in line. Emily and Julie exchange a nervous glance, finally realizing why nominating Mary Anne was not a good idea. 

"Did I look like a complete idiot?" Mary Anne asks me after the rally. We're standing beside my locker, collecting my journalism binder before second period. 

"No one can look like an idiot when Alan Gray's around," I reply. 

"That was so embarrassing," Mary Anne groans. "Do you think anyone will notice if I just don't show up tonight?" 

"I think Alan would prefer if you didn't," I laugh. "Come on, Mary Anne," I say when she doesn't even crack a smile. "You did fine. And tonight will be fine." 

Mary Anne sighs and leans back against the lockers. She looks unconvinced. 

"Don't worry so much, Mary Anne," 

"Brian Hall asked me to the dance," she says, so suddenly I wonder how it fits with our current conversation. "You know, from the boys' swim team," 

"I know who he is. What did you say?" 

"I said no. He's the fifth guy I turned down this week. The only reason anyone's even asked me is because I'm running for Homecoming Queen. Isn't that shallow?" Mary Anne sighs again. She's holding something back. I hate when she does this, forces me to pry things out of her. 

"What? Do you want to go to the dance with Brian Hall?" I ask, slightly offended. Brian Hall is quiet and rather dull. I consider myself and Julie to be a lot more fun. 

"It's not that. It's just...well, Sharon thinks it's weird that I'm the only Homecoming candidate without a date," 

"Since when do you care what Sharon thinks?" I ask. 

"I don't! It's just...if Sharon thinks it's weird, then maybe other people do too. Like, maybe it looks like I can't get a date," 

Suddenly it all clicks and my jaw drops slightly. "Mary Anne! Is this about Pete Black going to the dance with Lauren Hoffman? I thought you were over this. It's not a competition to see who moves on first. Besides, Lauren told you they're going as friends. Not that you should care either way," 

Mary Anne looks embarrassed. "This isn't about Pete!" she protests. 

"Honestly, Mary Anne, if you still like Pete tell him. Otherwise, it's time to move beyond this. You can't live your life based on what Pete Black happens to be doing at the moment," 

"This isn't about Pete Black!" Mary Anne cries. The few people left in the hallway turn to look at us. Mary Anne blushes. 

"We're going to be late," I tell her, shutting my locker and heading down the hall. 

I shouldn't feel betrayed that Mary Anne still likes Pete Black. I shouldn't feel jealous that my friendship isn't enough for her. I know that someday I have to allow myself to like boys again. But so much of me is still afraid of falling into old patterns. I don't want to be Boy-Crazy Stacey again. I don't want to lose myself in a boy again. And I don't know how to balance who I've become with who I once was. 

And I shouldn't rely on Mary Anne to keep me grounded. It's not fair to her. 

By the end of journalism, Mary Anne and I are speaking again, acting like everything's normal. That's a nice thing about having Mary Anne for a best friend. I don't always have to apologize. She knows when I'm sorry and forgives willingly. 

Even so, our argument in the hallway nags at me as Julie and I walk to calculus. When Julie and I take our desks I can't keep silent any longer. "I think Mary Anne still likes Pete Black," I tell Julie. 

Julie has her head inside her backpack, but removes it to give me a confused look. "Huh?" 

"She's upset that he's going to the dance with Lauren," I explain. 

The confusion doesn't leave Julie's face. "What does she care? They broke up last June," 

"Exactly!" I smile, smugly. It's nice to have someone agree with me. 

"I don't know what's the big deal about Pete Black anyway," says Julie. "Sure, he's an awesome basketball player and a pretty nice guy, but half the girls in school are practically falling on their knees to blow him." 

"Who's blowing who?" asks Grace, sliding into the seat in front of me. 

"No one. Julie and I are just discussing the mysterious appeal of Pete Black and the girls willing to loosen their morals for him," 

Grace turns around in her chair, propping her elbows on my desk. She's wearing a pink ribbed sweater that somehow manages not to clash with her hair. I never thought redheads could wear pink. Mallory Pike certainly never could. 

"Anyone who dates Mary Anne isn't interested in girls with loose morals," says Grace. "That's why I like Pete. He's not like all the other jerks at this school. I hope you're both voting for him for Homecoming King." 

"I'm not comfortable discussing my vote with you," Julie replies. 

Grace rolls her eyes. "I just hope Pete - who _deserves_ to win - isn't defeated by Howie Johnson," 

It's my turn to roll my eyes. 

"Don't roll your eyes at me, Stacey. You know I'm right. It's not fair if Howie wins. People just feel sorry for him because some drunk hit him with a car. Is that any reason to crown him Homecoming King? I think not," Grace huffs, turning back around in her chair. 

"I don't know why you hate Howie so much," I say. 

"In fourth grade, he blew his nose on my science homework and I haven't liked him since," Grace replies, crisply, still facing forward. 

Class starts then and we concentrate on asking questions about last night's homework. Julie keeps looking at my paper, then erasing her answers and writing mine down. Twenty minutes into class, the door opens and Lauren walks in carrying a manila envelope. She hands it to Miss Everhart, smiles at the class, then leaves. 

"Ah...the final ballots," says Miss Everhart with a grin. She removes the stack of yellow paper from the envelope and begins passing out the ballots. 

Miss Everhart passes the ballots down our rows. I set mine in front of me, pen poised above it, and just stare. In front of me, Grace quickly marks her ballot and folds it in half. Beside me, Julie does the same. Earlier, I was so sure who I wanted to win. I press the pen down beside Howie Johnson's name, but before I circle it, Grace's words echo in my mind. Would I really vote for Howie if he didn't have a disability? I'd be a liar if I said I would. I circle Pete's name. Then I poise my pen beside Mary Anne's name. It shouldn't need any consideration. Mary Anne's my best friend. She's the only candidate who truly deserves to win. And yet, a nagging voice inside my head says not to vote for her. Mary Anne doesn't really want to win. The Homecoming Queen should want her title. Maybe deserving it doesn't factor in. 

I circle Grace's name. 


	11. Chapter 11

Football games usually start at seven. The Homecoming game is special. It starts at six-thirty. That half hour allows plenty of time for the floats and crowning ceremony during half-time _and_ gives everyone plenty of time to change before the Homecoming dance, which starts at ten. 

I'm late for the game. I don't arrive at SHS until fifteen after seven. I usually make it to all of SHS's home games, but rarely on time (do I ever arrive anywhere on time?) I come to socialize, it's not like I care about the score. Since I'm late, I have to park pretty far from the stadium. It's a nice night though, much warmer than the nights we've had lately. As I approach the stadium, I spot a group of students standing outside the gates, holding signs. At first I assume they're holding campaign signs, which is odd since the votes have already been cast and counted. Then I realize one of the students is Jessi Ramsey. I groan, inwardly, and wish there was an alternate way into the stadium. 

"Hi Jessi," I greet her. "What are you doing out here?" 

Jessi rolls her eyes. "Can't you read?" she asks, pointing at her sign. It reads: _Homecoming Is Racist!_

"Oh...not a fan of Homecoming?" I say, lamely. 

"Of a _fair_ Homecoming, maybe," she replies. "Doesn't it bother you that no minorities were nominated for King and Queen?" 

"There was that Korean kid who ran for Prince," 

"That doesn't count!" Jessi cries. 

"Sorry, you feel that way, Jessi. But it's not like SHS is that racially diverse. There really aren't many minorities _to_ nominate. Maybe you can run for Princess next year. Good luck with that," 

I step toward the gates, but Jessi and her friends link arms and block my way. I sigh and roll my eyes. Jessi and I used to be friends, but like with so many of my friends, we drifted apart. We weren't really close friends to begin with, and although I liked her, I wasn't that sad about losing her friendship. She's changed a lot since sixth grade. I know she still dances, but drama and theater are her big passions now. She enjoys the limelight. 

"Please move," I tell them. When they don't budge, I shove right on through, knocking some girl to the ground. "Drama freaks," I mutter as I walk away. 

Inside the gates, I pay for my ticket, then search the bleachers for Julie and Emily. I find them in the seventh row behind where the cheerleaders are on the field. They found a perfect view of where the crowning ceremony will take place. Julie and Emily are sitting together, sharing a nacho and beside them are Claudia and Erica. Emily has on about a dozen layers of clothes while Julie and Erica appear perfectly comfortable in their long-sleeved shirts. Claudia's wearing...something that may or may not be Mary Anne's face created out of sequins on a sweatshirt. Claudia's digging in her gigantic purse, pulling out boxes and bags of candy. I laugh. It's just like old times. 

"Hey everyone," I greet them, taking off my jacket before sitting down next to Emily. "Anyone else have trouble getting through the gates?" 

"Is that nutty Jessi Ramsey back?" asks Julie. "I thought Mrs. Hoffman and the PTA chased her off. What a weirdo," 

I laugh and steal one of Emily's nachos. "I'm really glad you decided to come," I tell her. 

"Oh, I wouldn't miss this! I'm only staying until the crowning though. It's still the Sabbath and I shouldn't stay out too late," Emily replies. 

Claudia looks really confused, but instead of asking questions takes an enormous thermos out of her purse and begins pouring hot cocoa into styrofoam cups. I steal another of Emily's nachos, but this time Julie smacks my hand. 

"Get your own! These are ours," she exclaims. 

I sigh and stand up. "I guess I'm going to the snack bar then. Anyone want anything?" 

Everyone shakes their heads, so I walk down the bleachers and head toward the snack bar (also known as The Blue Jay's Nest. Yes, our mascot isn't some ferocious animal. It's a blue jay). Near the end of the bleachers, I stop to chat with Mary Anne's dad, stepmom, and grandma who are seated in the first row. I notice Mr. Spier and Sharon are sitting with their coats between them. 

Mr. Spier's eager to show me all the special features on his new camcorder. "I bought it just for tonight," he explains. 

"Frivolous," mutters Sharon. 

Mr. Spier's messing with the camcorder and either doesn't hear her or is completely ignoring her. 

"It's too bad Dawn couldn't be here," I tell Sharon, in an effort to make pleasant conversation. "Is she coming for Thanksgiving?" 

Sharon sighs. "She hasn't decided. Not that I blame her after her less than warm reception over the summer," Sharon shoots a murderous glare at Mr. Spier, who still appears to be ignoring her. 

"Well, tell Dawn I said hello," I say, shifting from one foot to the next. "I really hope Mary Anne wins tonight, Mr. Spier." 

Mr. Spier smiles at me. "Thank you, Stacey. I hope so, too. I only wish her mother could be here to see this," 

Mary Anne's grandma pats his hand. "So do I," she says. They get along much better now that she lives in Stoneybrook. 

Sharon snorts and rolls her eyes. I take that as my cue to leave. After saying goodbye, I walk down the steps of the bleachers and stand in line at the snack bar. It's crowded around the snack bar, although the line isn't very long. Mostly it's just kids hanging around in large clusters. I see Vanessa Pike, Haley Braddock, and Charlotte Johanssen and a few other middle school kids standing behind the bleachers. I smile, remembering how grown up it felt to attend high school games when I was in middle school. 

I have to keep to a strict eating schedule because of my diabetes, so I've already eaten dinner. I can still have snack though. I order a diet coke and a small nacho. I figure that whatever I don't eat either Julie or Claudia will inhale. After paying, I head back toward the bleachers, holding my soda and nachos in the air while fighting the crush of people. Someone bumps me hard in the shoulder, causing soda to slosh over side of the cup and onto the grass. 

"Sorry!" cries the person who bumped into me. 

"It's okay," I reply, turning my head in his direction. 

It's Charlie Thomas, Kristy's and Sam's older brother. He's a senior at Central Connecticut State in New Britain. I haven't seen him in a long time. I don't think he comes home very often. 

"Hey, Charlie! Slumming it at a high school football game?" 

"I never miss a Homecoming game," he replies. "Besides, my roommate's girlfriend is one of the Queen candidates, so I didn't really have a choice but to come," 

"Who's his girlfriend?" I ask, a sort of sinking feeling in my stomach. 

"Uh...Cokie Mason," 

"Oh, yes, the college boyfriend she's always bragging about," 

Charlie laughs. "Kristy doesn't even want Rick staying at the house. She says he has Cokie germs on him," 

It's my turn to laugh. "It's nice to know Kristy's still as mature as ever," 

"Yeah. She's up in the bleachers with Abby, Anna, and Shannon," Charlie points toward the bleachers. I crane my neck, but can't see Kristy. She's still too short. I think I see the Stevenson twins' wild, curly hair though. "You should go up and say hello," Charlie pauses. "Sam and Janet are up there too." 

"Oh...well, maybe you should tell Kristy and everyone to come down to see me. I'm sitting with Claudia," 

"All right. I better get in line. I'm supposed to be getting Janet a soda. It's not like she's _Sam's_ wife or anything. It was nice seeing you, Stacey," 

"You too, Charlie," I tell him with a wave. 

When I get back to my seat, Claudia and Erica have somehow produced giant burritos from Claudia's clown car of a purse. Claudia's going to make herself sick. I don't know what I'll do if she throws up. 

Julie and Erica are in the middle of a thrilling conversation about Mr. Arden's toupee. Emily keeps checking her watch and her left eye is beginning to twitch. Only Emily Bernstein could get stressed out at a football game. I turn around in my seat and try to discreetly look at Kristy and her family. I don't want Sam seeing me and thinking I'm checking him out. Sam's too busy watching the game to notice me, or maybe he's just trying to ignore Janet, who's hanging on his arm and talking to him. Or trying to. He doesn't seem to be paying attention. I wonder if Janet still snaps her gum like she did in middle school. She definitely still wears too much make-up. 

Kristy, Abby, and Shannon are huddled together, laughing, and looking extremely close. Anna a little removed from their group, appearing very much the outsider. Anna didn't go to SDS with Abby. SDS doesn't have an orchestra, so Anna came to SHS as planned. She was here for freshman and sophomore year, then last year transferred to a special music school in New Haven. During the week, she lives at the school, but comes home most weekends. Anna was sort of part of our group at SHS, but none of us have really kept in touch with her. I should go up and say hello to everyone, even if Sam is there. I just don't know what to say to people who are no longer my friends. Everything that comes out of my mouth always seems awkward and shallow. 

Julie leans over and pokes my leg. "Did you see Grace's parents when you came back?" she asks, gesturing in front of us. Grace's parents are four rows ahead of us. I recognize her dad's bald head and her mom's bobbed red hair. 

"Walked right by them, I guess," I reply. 

Julie gestures to her chest and whispers, "Mrs. Blume got her breasts redone." 

"You are obsessed with breasts," I whisper back. 

"I am not!" 

"Who's breasts are you guys whispering about?" Claudia asks, loudly. 

That pretty much ends the conversation right there. 

We go back to pretending to watch the game. Claudia pulls a tupperware container of seven-layer bean dip out of her purse (I swear, that purse is magic) and opens a bag of tortilla chips. She passes the dip and chips around, then refills everyone's cups of cocoa. (I am, of course, not drinking any). Claudia's just pulling a roll of paper towels out of her purse (seriously) when a loud thunder of feet stop by our row. It's Kristy, Abby, Shannon, and Anna. 

"Hey everyone!" says Kristy. 

"Hi," we all chorus. 

"Isn't this exciting?" asks Kristy. "Personally, I think Homecoming Court is stupid and demeaning, but it's the kind of thing Mary Anne's into. We couldn't pass up the opportunity to offer our support. It's too bad the entire BSC couldn't be here." 

"I believe I saw Jessi Ramsey greeting people at the front gates," says Julie. 

I bite my bottom lip to keep from laughing and end up snorting. Emily and Erica do the same. Kristy, Abby, Shannon, and Anna look confused. 

"I saw you looking up at us, Stacey," Kristy says in that oh-so-tactful way she seems to share with Julie. "I don't blame you for not coming up. Janet probably would have shoved you off the bleachers. Sam talks about you all the time. It's creepy. Can you believe that two-faced bimbo is my sister-in-law? Remember when she tried to sabotage the BSC?" 

I don't particularly want to discuss Sam or Janet or the BSC. I change the subject. "How's SDS?" I ask. 

"Great!" says Abby. "We really like it," 

"Yeah," agrees Kristy. "The uniforms aren't so bad and the classes are really small. There are a lot of electives, too. I'm taking a business class this year. So, yeah, it's a great school. The kids don't even seem that snobby anymore," 

"They never were snobby," protests Shannon. 

We talk about school and our families awhile longer (I _do not_ divulge that my mother's dating Mr. Prezzioso. That's probably a violation of club rules and Kristy may attempt to fine me). Once Anna finishes telling us about her school in New Haven, it seems like we've run out of things to talk about. There's just an awkward silence. It's the awkward silence of when people cease to be friends. There's no use trying to fill it up because it will always be empty. 

Kristy and the others return to their seats. I feel the kind of dull sadness I feel whenever I see an old friend. It's sort of twisted and confused. I wonder how people who once had so much in common, once liked each other so much, can end up as total strangers. I wonder the same about my parents - how they went from being madly in love to hating the thought of each other. I guess I know the answer though. People change, circumstances change...and life moves on. 

"Half time!" Emily cries, bringing me out of my thoughts. 

"Finally!" I exclaim. 

I intwine my fingers in Emily's and on her other side Julie does the same. There's a fluttering in my stomach. I didn't realize I'd be so nervous. Out on the field, Lauren Hoffman and Coach Keller are setting up a microphone and I spot Rick Chow running around with his camera, preparing to take photos for the _Gazette_. There's also a reporter and photographer from _The Stoneybrook News_ (the local newspaper). That's impressive enough, then I notice the WSBK van pull onto the field. Their star reporter, Mimi Snowdon, hops out of the van. 

"Oh my Lord!" Claudia exclaims. "Mary Anne's going to be on t.v.!" 

"I just hope Mary Anne doesn't know that," I reply. 

Emily and Julie exchange a worried glance. 

On the football field, Coach Keller steps up to the microphone, taps it, and clears her voice. "Welcome to the Stoneybrook High School Homecoming game!" Everyone in the bleachers stand up and cheer. Coach Keller grins. "An enthusiastic crowd tonight! In a few minutes, the class floats will be rolling out onto the track along with our Homecoming King and Queen candidates. Our students have worked hard on their floats and I hope you will give them the respect and applause they deserve. The same for our candidates. I'm getting the signal now. Here comes the freshman float!" Coach Keller walks away from the microphone and takes a seat on a bench, alongside the football coaches. 

In the distance, from behind the locker rooms, I can barely make out the freshman float. Even so, everyone stands and cheers. Everyone on the freshman float is dressed in seventies clothing. There's a disco ball and strobe lights on their float, which are rather blinding. The freshmen are all doing the Hustle. Behind their float is the sophomore float, which isn't impressive at all. The sophomores are all dressed in our school colors - navy and red - and are screaming and jumping around. And that's it. Their float doesn't even have a theme! Next is the junior float, which has an underwater theme. Their float is decorated like a lagoon and the girls are dressed like mermaids and the boys like deep-sea divers. Last is the senior float - the one Alan Gray designed. I dropped off the float committee when I heard Alan talking about an alien invasion theme. I wasn't quite prepared for his actual design. 

"Pirates!" I can't help but shriek. 

Yes, the senior float is a giant pirate ship and all the seniors on it are dressed as pirates. Austin Bentley's at the steering wheel (is that what it's called?) with an enormous fake black beard and a parrot on his shoulder. Ross Brown and Mary Sherwood are on the top deck in the middle of a sword battle. A group of pirates are attempting to force Katie Shea to walk the plank. This only could have come from the demented mind of Alan Gray. 

"It's Alan's senior year goal to have the mascot changed to a pirate," says Emily. "This is the first step in his petition. He wants to write an editorial about it." 

"If I'd known you got to dress like a pirate," exclaims Julie, "I would have joined the float committee!" 

"Me too!" cries Claudia, apparently forgetting that she no longer attends SHS. 

The King and Queen candidates follow the floats. Each couple stands in the back of a truck and each truck has a sign along its side for that particular couple. Margie and Logan are in the first truck. Margie's changed out of her cheerleading uniform and into an impossibly low-cut magenta dress. Logan's still in his football uniform, as is RJ Blaser who's in the next truck with Cokie Mason. Cokie's in a teal and black lace dress with a corset that's so tight her breasts are practically pushed up to her chin. For some reason, she's wearing black fishnet stockings. 

The third truck has Pete and Grace. Grace has on a dark green dress with long sleeves and a v-shaped neckline. The skirt is short and full. It's a dress I never would have chosen for myself and I'd probably have never chosen it for Grace either. She looks terrific though. The fourth truck has Howie and Sheila and the nicest thing I can say about Sheila's dress is that it covers more than Margie's and Cokie's combined. 

Mary Anne and Alan bring up the rear. I haven't seen Mary Anne's dress yet. She and Mr. Spier bought it at Lear's in the Washington Mall. She wouldn't let me see it. She said it was a surprise. And I _am_ surprised. Not by the dress, which is a definite Mary Anne dress - long and fitted and dark burgundy, sleeveless and the top cuts high across her chest. A very romantic dress. It's an obvious choice for Mary Anne. But what surprises me is how beautiful Mary Anne looks. I'd forgotten how lovely Mary Anne really is. And in the back of the truck with Alan Gray, waving and smiling, Mary Anne looks absolutely beautiful - more so than Margie and Sheila and Cokie and even Grace. 

All the trucks stop in front of the bleachers. The candidates climb out of the trucks (which is rather difficult for the girls, especially Cokie, who looks like she can hardly breathe let alone move). The candidates line up beside the trucks, then each couple takes their turn walking onto the football field. Mary Anne and Alan are last. Emily, Julie, and I all groan when we get our first good look at Alan. Apparently, he wasn't willing to miss out on his pirate float after all. That's right - Alan Gray is escorting poor Mary Anne onto the football field dressed as a pirate. 

The five King candidates line up to the right of Lauren Hoffman, who's now standing at the microphone. The Queen candidates line up on her left. Grace and Mary Anne are standing together, clutching each other's hand. Grace appears confident and not the least bit nervous. Somehow, Mary Anne doesn't look like she's going to cry or throw up. Instead she looks relaxed and happy. Her smile is absolutely genuine. I feel a pang of regret for not voting for her. Maybe she wants this after all. 

"And this year's Homecoming King is..." Lauren says into the microphone, looking down at a piece of paper, "...Howie Johnson!" 

All the other King candidates slap Howie on the back and punch him in the shoulders. Grace's smile flickers from her face, but she quickly turns it back on. Her smile suddenly looks very fake. The Queen candidates hug Howie, all except Grace, who steps backward when Howie approaches her and slips an arm around Mary Anne's waist. 

"And now...the winner of this year's Homecoming Queen..." Lauren grins, as she unfolds her piece of paper. She takes her time reading it (as if it isn't just two words and as if she doesn't already know who the winner is), "...the winner is...Grace Blume!" 

Emily, Julie, and I scream. On the field, Grace screams too. So does Mary Anne, as she throws her arms around Grace's neck. Margie, Sheila, and Cokie plaster smiles on their faces, although their eyes are simply murderous. I underestimated Grace. I didn't think she could win. 

Lauren places a crown on Howie's head. Then she hands a bouquet of red roses to Grace and slips a tiara onto Grace's head. Lauren and Grace spend some time messing with the tiara because there's no way Grace will have it the least bit crooked. Now that they're crowned, Grace and Howie are supposed to link arms and walk forward together. Howie takes a step and Grace hesitates, then walks around him to stand on the side of his good leg. When Howie offers his arm, Grace pretends to not notice. She strides forward quickly and Howie has to hurry to catch up. It's all so obviously deliberate. Everyone must see that. 

Grace smiles and waves to us, like she isn't being rotten, even though she's gotten exactly what she wanted. And we wave back because she's still our friend. 

"She's going to be impossible now," says Julie. 

"Everything's going to change," I agree. 

Things are always changing. 

On the football field, Grace continues to smile and wave. Then, out of nowhere, a spray of water hits her in the face. Before anyone can cry out, we notice that everyone on the football field is getting sprayed in the face. 

"Sprinklers? In the middle of a game?" Erica shrieks. 

"Someone must have messed with the automatic timer!" Julie yells. 

Chaos breaks out. People in the bleachers are shouting and pushing for a better view. Grace is screaming on the field, her face turning bright red while her dress and hair become soaked. The other girls are running off the field, including Mary Anne, who as a second thought runs back to Grace and pulls her off the field. The King candidates don't run off the field, but rather further onto it, sliding on the wet grass and jumping through the water in their coats and ties. 

"Who would mess with the timer?" asks Emily. 

"This is such an Alan Gray thing to do!" exclaims Erica. 

And it clicks in my mind. Not Alan. Not at all. 

"Jessi Ramsey!" 


	12. Chapter 12

There's not much point in staying once the game resumes. Emily rushes off without saying anything to Mary Anne or Grace. After awhile, Mary Anne comes up to our seats looking both embarrassed and amused. She admits she doesn't know if she should laugh or cry. Everyone around us if very nice to her, complimenting her on her hair and dress (which isn't _too_ wet) and composure on the football field. Then Mary Anne leaves with her family, so she can attempt to dry her dress and fix her hair, which is breaking free of the barrettes and falling down. A few rows ahead of us, Grace is arguing with her parents, but they're arguing so softly I can't hear anything they say. Grace's hair is dripping wet in the front and her entire dress is damp. Grace herself looks absolutely furious - clenched fists and narrowed eyes and her foot stomps once or twice. Grace and her parents finally gather their things and leave. Grace doesn't glance at us even once.

Around nine, Claudia and Erica decide to go back to Erica's house. Julie and I agree it's a good time for us to leave as well. It will give us (especially me) plenty of time to prepare for the dance. Julie and I put on our jackets and walk out to the parking lot with Claudia and Erica. We completely forget to say goodbye to Kristy and the others. Does it matter? Probably not.

"We should track down Jessi Ramsey," Julie says when we reach my car.

"We have to get ready for the dance," I reply.

Julie rolls her eyes. Clearly, exacting revenge on Jessi is an avoidance tactic. Julie hasn't attended a dance since the eighth grade Halloween Hop. She always manages to make excuses (and usually really lame ones like "I have to bathe my dog"). In fact, as odd as it seems, I've never seen Julie in a dress. She attempted to start a revolution at the end of eighth grade by refusing to wear a dress to graduation. The only girls who signed on with that revolution were Kristy and Abby, but then their mothers found out and made them wear dresses anyway.

"First thing Monday morning," says Julie, "we find Jessi Ramsey and give her a swirly. I'll hold her arms, Grace will shove her head in the toilet, and you can flush. We won't tell Mary Anne."

"Uh...swirlies really aren't my thing,"

"Hm. Well, I guess Grace and I can do it without you. I can hold her arms and flush with my foot. Or I'll think of something else we can do," Julie says, then laughs. "I can't wait to tell Grace who turned on the sprinklers."

I laugh as I imagine the wrath of Grace flattening Jessi and every member of her drama clique. Jessi will never protest anything ever again.

"Julie...I have a confession to make," I tell her. There's too much weighing on me. I need to unload at least one thing.

"You tampered with the sprinklers?"

"What? No! You have to promise not tell anyone," A rather risky thing to say to Julie considering she's practically the hub of the SHS gossip mill. "I didn't vote for Mary Anne for Homecoming Queen." Such a minor secret considering the others I carry around, but still it's nice to get off my chest, nice to give someone a chance to say, _you are not a bad person._

Julie laughs, loudly, leans forward and covers her mouth. She appears slightly hysterical (honestly, the things that set Julie off). "Neither did I!" she cries.

"You didn't?" I say. After all that trouble she and Emily went through to get Mary Anne nominated?

"No! I couldn't bring myself to do it. Not after the pep rally. Mary Anne looked like she was about to wet herself from fear. I didn't vote for Grace either. Her ego was already inflated enough. I didn't want to be in any way responsible for its further growth. I voted for Cokie Mason,"

"You voted for Cokie?" I exclaim.

"Well, sort of. I modified my ballot. So, actually I voted for Cokie Mason's breasts,"

I laugh so hard I almost hit a parked car when I turn onto Elm Street. My laughter quickly dies when I see Mr. Prezzioso's car parked in our driveway. I'd forgotten he was coming over. I didn't realize I'd have to introduce him to Julie. I never wanted to introduce him to _any_ of my friends.

"Is that your mom's boyfriend?" Julie asks, pointing to his car.

Boyfriend. The thought still creeps me out. "Yes," I reply, trying to sound casual.

Mom and Mr. Prezzioso are sitting on the couch in the living room. Mom's running her fingers through his dark hair. (Just what I want my friend to see). Mom has a bowl of popcorn on her lap and Mr. Prezzioso has Paddy on his. Paddy's laying on his back with his legs spread far apart while Mr. Prezzioso scratches under his chin. _Traitor_, I think.

"How was Homecoming?" Mom asks, looking up and (thankfully) removing her fingers from Mr. Prezzioso's hair.

"Okay," I reply.

"Just okay? Did Mary Anne win?"

"No. Grace won,"

I can tell Mom's irritated by my short answers. She has that look on her face. The one that let's me know we'll be having an argument later.

Julie steps forward to stand beside me. She sticks her hand in Mr. Prezzioso's face. "I'm Julie Stern," she says.

"The infamous Julie Stern," says Mr. Prezzioso. I hope he doesn't mention the Cokie Mason rumor I told him about at dinner last night. Instead he just shakes Julie's hand and says, "I'm Nick Prezzioso."

Julie flops back into an armchair and props her feet on the ottoman. "You will never believe what happened during half time!" she tells Mom and Mr. Prezzioso.

It must be nice to never feel awkward or out of place.

As Julie launches into the story about the crowning ceremony and the sprinklers, I go upstairs to take a quick shower. When I'm undressing in the bathroom, I hear Mom, Mr. Prezzioso, and Julie laughing. Yes, it must be very nice to be Julie.

When I walk into my bedroom after my shower, Julie's sitting at my dressing table, rifling through my cosmetics case. I'm thrilled to see that Julie and Emily weren't lying when they dropped off Julie's garment bag earlier. It really did have a dress in it. The dress Julie has on is Emily's. It's a pale peach color, sleeveless, and not the most flattering cut on Julie. But at least it's a dress.

"I had to borrow some shoes," Julie says, dusting some blush onto her cheeks. The most make-up Julie wears to school is lipgloss and mascara. Julie wearing a dress _and_ blush in the same evening is quite exciting.

"That's fine," I reply, turning on the curling iron that sits on the dressing table. I slip off my robe and start dressing. Mom already set out my new dress. It's a deep plum color and loose-fitting with short sleeves and a low v-neck. I pull it on over my head.

"You were really rude before," Julie says, out of nowhere, like she's the queen of tact and good taste.

"For not introducing you to Mr. Prezzioso?" I ask. "Sorry, didn't know know you cared."

"You were kind of rude to everyone," replies Julie. She's now dabbing my perfume behind her ears. "I don't understand what you're so mad about. He seems nice and he's cute. Plus, your mom looks so young you can't even tell she's older than him. What's the problem?"

"The problem is," I reply, testily, "Mom was sneaking around with him for weeks. And I used to babysit his kids! The Prezziosos were one of the BSC's most faithful clients. It's weird and it's creepy and you're right - you _don't_ understand."

Julie shrugs and picks up my curling iron. She starts curling the ends of her stick straight blonde hair. I know she has more to say, but thankfully she keeps her mouth shut.

* * *

The dance has already started when Julie and I walk into the gym. The dance floor is clear except for Grace and Howie who are in the middle of the traditional King and Queen dance. They're standing at arms length with Grace's fingers barely touching Howie's shoulders and Howie's fingers barely touching Grace's waist. They look absolutely miserable.

"Grace Blume is the most horrible person in the world," Barbara Hirsch cries, marching up to Julie and me as soon as we walk through the doors. Barbara's holding Howie's cane. Her face is tight with anger.

"We can't be held accountable for Grace's behavior," I reply, irritable. Honestly, what does she expect me to do? Run out on the dance floor and scold Grace?

"She is ruining Homecoming," Barbara tells us. "I thought she'd changed, but she's still as big a bitch as she ever was!"

Several kids turn to stare at us.

"Grace isn't a bitch," Julie protests, which surprises me considering the things Julie says about Grace. "She just doesn't like Howie. Not everyone has to like him, you know."

"She's our friend," I say, which is true no matter how cruel and juvenile Grace behaves.

Barbara walks away in a huff. She walks straight onto the dance floor and cuts in on Grace and Howie. Grace practically runs off the dance floor, appearing very relieved. She disappears into the crowd.

"You finally made it," says Mary Anne, suddenly appearing at my side. Her dress is dry and her hair repaired. No one would ever guess she'd been caught in some sprinklers.

"You look beautiful, Mary Anne," I tell her.

Mary Anne touches her hair, self-consciously. "That was so embarrassing. I don't know how I managed not to cry. People will be talking about this for years. I hope they forget I was there,"

"We're going to get Jessi Ramsey," Julie promises.

"Well...don't do anything too mean. And make sure you know for sure she did it,"

Mary Anne approving a revenge plot? Well, Jessi _did_ nearly ruin Homecoming.

"I probably wouldn't have come to the dance," Mary Anne tells us, "had Sharon not been able to fix my hair. Dad, Sharon, and Grandma were so proud of how I handled myself on the field. Dad and Sharon didn't snap at each other once the entire way home," Mary Anne appears to be pleased about this. "You should have gone out to the parking lot with us. Grace threw a massive tantrum by her parents' car. Dad, Sharon, and Grandma were horrified. I was so embarrassed for her."

Julie rolls her eyes. "What a baby,"

I smile. I knew Julie's goodwill toward Grace wouldn't last forever. Or more than five minutes.

"What did Grace's parents say?" I ask.

"They told her to knock it off because she got what she wanted and should be happy for once," Mary Anne replies. "I was shocked. The Blumes are the most indulgent parents I've ever met. I've never heard them speak to Grace like that."

"Everyone has a breaking point, I guess," I say.

We see Grace pushing through the crowd, heading toward us, beaming. Obviously, she's gotten over her fit. She's pulling a boy behind her - actually _pulling_ him. He's dressed in a sports coat and tie (the only boy here in a sports coat) and looking quite unhappy. I figure he's her date. I know she planned to bring someone from another school.

"Stacey, Julie, hi!" Grace cries. "This is Damian. We're in youth group together,"

"Hello," Julie and I reply.

Damian nods, then starts surveying the crowd.

"Congratulations, Grace," I tell her. "I'm really happy for you. You look positively radiant!"

Grace flips her hair over her shoulder. I know she agrees. "Thank you! This night has almost been perfect...except for when the sprinklers nearly ruined everything. And except for when I had to dance with Howie Johnson. I was appalled when Lauren read his name! Simply appalled! No use being mad anymore, I guess." Graces straightens her tiara and gives her hair another toss. "Damian and I were just talking to Pete and Austin. Dorianne Wallingford's parents are out of town and she's throwing a party. A final grasp at popularity now that her reign as Princess has ended. It's sort of pathetic. Anyway, Dorianne just left to set up. Who wants to go?"

"You'd go to a sinner's party?" Julie asks in mock horror.

"As Queen, I'm practically required to make an appearance," Grace replies, haughtily.

Ten minutes later, Mary Anne, Julie, and I are in my car driving to Dorianne's house. Julie keeps whining that she didn't need to wear a dress after all and Mary Anne keeps reminding me that her curfew is midnight (even though we're supposed to stay overnight with Grace. How is her dad going to enforce that curfew?) There are already about ten cars outside Dorianne's house. Pete promised Grace that Dorianne had been selective in her invites. I haven't been to many parties in high school (other than birthday parties) but even I know that "selective" has a flexible definition.

"It doesn't look too bad," Mary Anne observes when we walk into the house.

She's right. There aren't many kids here (yet). Maybe twenty or twenty-five. Dorianne's house is pretty big, so everyone has room to spread out. This might not be a total disaster.

Grace charges up to us as soon as we take off our coats. "Austin Bentley broke into Dorianne's parent's liquor cabinet. I think we should leave. If someone calls the police, I could be dethroned,"

"You _made_ us come," I snap.

"I didn't know there was going to be alcohol! I'm not comfortable. I'll go find Damian then we can leave," Grace storms off toward the kitchen.

We don't see her again for half an hour.

Mary Anne, Julie, and I mingle for awhile until more kids show up and the intoxication level rises. Something about the presence of alcohol makes kids really pushy. Once Mary Anne, Julie, and I tire of getting shoved into (and after half of Rick Chow's drink somehow ends up on Julie's head), we take seats on the living room couch. Katie Shea, Brian Hall, and Pete Black (without Lauren Hoffman, which Mary Anne obviously notices) are already sitting around the living room. We start discussing the Homecoming game (which is probably all anyone will talk about for days, if not weeks). Grace reappears in the middle of our conversation, looking irritated, but her mood quickly changes. Brian Hall hovers around Mary Anne, but she's too focused on pretending not to be focused on Pete. If Brian senses her disinterest, he doesn't let on and fetches sodas and plates of food for her. Julie takes advantage and makes him do the same for her.

Someone taps my shoulder. I turn around and Price Irving's standing behind me. I can't say I'm thrilled. I can't say I'm happy at all. The last thing I need tonight is him pestering me.

"Stacey, can we talk?" he asks, nervously. "In private?"

I exchange a look with Mary Anne, then stand up. "All right," I say.

I follow him out of the living room to the foot of the stairs.

"Let's go upstairs," he suggests. "There are too many people down here."

"All right," I say again.

I follow him up the stairs, thinking over how to break his heart. He leads me into a guest bedroom. I sit down on the bed and Price sits a couple feet away. He doesn't say anything at first, just looks at me sort of expectantly, like this was all my idea.

"What do you want to talk about?" I ask after tiring of his staring.

"Oh...uh, I don't really know how to begin," Price replies. He runs his hand through his fair hair, then tugs at the collar of his polo shirt. His neck's turning red. I've never seen Price nervous. He always seems so confident and...well, snobby. It doesn't seem in his nature to be nervous.

"Don't be nervous," I tell him, reassuringly. "Just tell me what it is."

Price clears his throat and when he speaks it's in his usual voice, calm and self-assured. "Jeremy Rudolph's a good friend of mine," he says.

"Oh...?" I reply, perplexed.

"We were talking about you last week. He told me you're a really great girl,"

I've hardly spoken two words to Jeremy Rudolph since eighth grade. I start to get a strange feeling in my stomach. Suddenly Price is the one making me nervous.

"Jeremy just went on and on about you. He told me all about you, Stacey," Price looks at me, pointedly. "_All_ about you. And about all the things you used to do for him. I thought you might want to do them for me too."

My head starts spinning. This has to be a joke. Price can_not_ be seriously suggesting..."You brought me up here to give you a blow job?" I ask.

Price smiles. "Well, yeah. You've done it with lots of boys. Jeremy told me all about it." Price slides his hand onto my thigh. His smile widens.

I stare at him, blankly, completely astonished. Anger boils up inside me and at the same time, tears are forming behind my eyes. Who is Jeremy to spread these lies about me? I am _not_ that girl anymore. Don't the last three years count for anything? Or is all that matters is that for a single year I was quick to fall on my knees for any boy. And not _any_ boy. I wasn't like that. And I'm definitely not like that now.

Price unzips his pants. Unzips them and takes it out. He actually takes it out. How presumptuous and arrogant, as if I'm such a slut I can't wait another second to blow him. I jump up and grab the nearest thing off the nightstand, which is an alarm clock, and hurl it at his head. The alarm clock hits him in the forehead and he cries out in surprise.

"What did you do that for?" he demands.

"You have to ask?" I scream.

I storm out of the room and down the stairs. Mary Anne and Julie are still in the living room. Their laughter stops as soon as they see me.

"Price Irving's an ass," I announce. "I'm leaving,"

Mary Anne and Julie look at me in surprise.

"What's wrong?" Mary Anne asks.

"I don't want to talk about it. I'm just leaving. Tell Grace I'm sorry, but I won't be staying over at her house,"

I turn and walk away. I get my coat from the laundry room, then head out the front door. I hear someone running down the driveway behind me. I expect it to be Mary Anne, but it's Julie.

"I don't want to talk about it," I snap, knowing that if I do I'll start to cry and spill out all my secrets.

"My bag's in your car," Julie reminds me.

"Oh,"

We walk to my car and Julie gets her duffel bag out of the backseat. She doesn't say anything else. It's unusual for Julie to not demand answers in that bluntly forward way of hers. I watch her go back into the house, then get into my car and drive away. I grip the steering wheel so tightly my knuckles turn white. Slowly, tears begin to trickle down my cheeks. I pull myself together by the time I reach my house. I can't afford to fall apart now.

Mr. Prezzioso's car is still in the driveway. I check my watch. It's nearly eleven-thirty. I throw my overnight bag over my shoulder and walk up to the front door. I guess I'm still shaken by what happened with Price because for a moment I wonder why all the lights are off. It dawns on me as soon as I'm halfway up the stairs. The sounds from Mom's bedroom give it away. I feel very stupid. And very, very creeped out.

I stand on the stairs for awhile wondering what I should do. This has never happened before. Mom doesn't have men stay overnight. But Mom wasn't expecting me home. Maybe I should appreciate her consideration. Or maybe she's just being sneaky again. I don't know what to do. I want to go to my room and shut the door and pretend Mom's not down the hall screwing Jenny Prezzioso's dad. They're making so much noise that there's no way I can pretend it's not going on. I turn and walk back down the stairs and out the door.

There's nowhere for me to go. I'm not welcome in my own home. All my friends are out living their fun, carefree lives. Where do I fit in? Not anywhere.


	13. Chapter 13

"I hope this isn't going to become a habit," Emily says. 

I've just sat up in her bed. I rub my eyes and check the clock. It's only eight in the morning. Emily's sitting at her desk, already dressed and wide awake. I am not a morning person. It sort of annoys me that Emily is one. Being alert and chipper in the morning isn't natural. Natural is grumbling and stumbling around half-asleep. 

"What isn't going to become a habit?" I ask, stretching and yawning. I feel like I barely slept. 

"Throwing rocks at my window at midnight. If you are going to make it a habit, you're going to have to start sleeping in the guest room. You had your knee in my back all night," 

"Sorry," 

"It's all right," 

I had nowhere to go last night but Emily's house. It was a wise decision. Emily was barely awake when she let me in the front door. She didn't ask questions. She was back in bed asleep by the time I brushed my teeth and put on my pajamas. I couldn't have asked for a better ending to my evening. No questions to answer, no surprises, no arguments. Emily gave me just what I needed - a brief reprieve from my life. 

"Wait until you see this," Emily tells me, walking over to the bed. 

Emily holds up the front page of the _Stoneybrook News_. I gasp and cover my mouth. Then I fall over laughing. On the front page is a huge color picture of Grace getting sprayed in the face with a sprinkler. Her eyes are closed and her mouth is hanging open in shock. It's an incredibly unflattering photo. She doesn't look queenly at all. 

"I hope Mr. and Mrs. Blume hide this from her," I laugh, grabbing the paper from Emily. "Grace is going to die. Seriously. She's never going to come back to school. This is horrible!" 

Emily giggles. "I can't say I feel _too_ sorry for her. She's been acting like a spoiled brat all week. This is a decent comeuppance," 

After taking my insulin and checking my blood sugar, I eat cold cereal in Emily's bed while Emily works the crossword puzzle in the newspaper. When I'm finished, I brush my teeth, apply my make-up, and get dressed. I make a point not to turn on any light switches because Emily's in a good mood and I don't want to offend her and ruin it. After I'm done in the bathroom, I discover Emily setting up her Scrabble board on the bed. She doesn't ask if I want to play or if I plan to leave soon. She's just operating on the assumption that I'll do whatever she wants. 

Or maybe she's just lonely like me. 

"Where are your parents?" I ask her, stretching out on the bed. 

"They had to go into the pharmacy," 

"I thought you couldn't work on Saturdays," 

"It was an emergency," Emily replies, slightly irritated, so I let it drop. 

Emily and I play for awhile in silence. She starts crushing me early on by managing to spell words like "asinine" and "zealot" while I put down things like "bed" and "lard". It's embarrassing and Emily's thrilled. 

"I'm really glad you decided to stay," says Emily, like I had a choice. Emily has no idea what's waiting for me at home. "Julie usually comes over in the afternoons, but the mornings can be quite boring. If you weren't here, I'd probably have spent all morning worrying about all the work I can't start until tonight. Homecoming put me behind. I have so much to catch up on. I can barely think about it without breaking into a cold sweat." 

"Oh...well, thanks for letting me stay," 

"So..." starts Emily, drawing three new tiles from the bag. "When are you going to tell me what happened last night? I've been very patient." 

"Nothing happened," 

"Then why were you throwing rocks at my window at midnight?" 

I decide I can trust Emily with at least half the story. She's sympathetic to the Mom-Mr. Prezzioso situation. She knows the Prezziosos and finds Mom dating Mr. Prezzioso nearly as disturbing as I do. She also considers Jenny Prezzioso to be the most horrid child ever, which is another plus in my book. 

"I couldn't stay at my house last night," I explain, "because Mom and Mr. Prezzioso were there...in Mom's bedroom." 

"Oh..." Emily scrunches her face in disgust. 

"I feel the same way," 

"Since your mom's having sex with him, do you think you can stop calling him Mr. Prezzioso?" 

"Emily!" I cry, throwing a pillow at her. "That's something Julie would ask!" 

Mom and Mr. Prezzioso have actually told me to call him Nick. I can't bring myself to do it. He will always be Mr. Prezzioso, client of the BSC and father of super brat Jenny. A first name humanizes him. If he's more than Mr. Prezzioso, client of the BSC and father of super brat Jenny, then I might start to like him. So, I can't afford to see him as anything more. 

"But that's not the real reason," says Emily. 

"What do you mean?" 

"You were supposed to spend the night at Grace's. Something happened before you went home. Why are you keeping secrets, Stacey?" 

Secrets? She has no idea. 

"I don't want to talk about it," I reply, but I do anyway. It just sort of spills out of me, just as I feared it would. 

"Why would Price think you'd do that?" Emily asks when I finish. Clearly, she's incredibly confused. 

"Jeremy Rudolph told him I would," 

"Why would Jeremy think you'd do that?" 

I feel my face grow hot. It shouldn't be so hard talking to Emily about this. She's one of my closest friends. But when she's sitting there in her neatly pressed blouse and fake pearls, looking so prim and proper, things like "oral sex" don't exactly roll off the tongue. 

"Because...I did that with Jeremy. When we dated in eighth grade, I performed oral sex on him a few times," 

"Oh...really? That's..._in eighth grade_?" 

I nod and promise myself I won't cry. 

Emily blushes. "Sorry, Stacey, I didn't mean to sound like that," Emily sits up and folds her legs indian-style. "Stacey, why do you think you did that in eighth grade?" Emily asks and I detect a subtle change in her voice. It's the change that happens when Emily turns from Emily the Friend to Emily the Journalist. Emily the Friend is compassionate with a sympathetic ear. Emily the Journalist is blunt and pushy and often rude. I don't feel like playing Emily the Journalist's games. 

"I'm not talking about this anymore," I tell her, rolling onto my side and reorganizing my Scrabble tiles. 

"You're getting defensive, Stacey," Emily observes. "Did you feel that providing sexual favors was the only way to keep Jeremy?" 

"Emily! That's none of your business!" 

"You brought it up, Stacey. Do you think your parents' divorce made you feel you needed to keep a boy by any means necessary?" 

I sit up and swing my legs off the bed. "You're not psychoanalyzing me today, Emily Bernstein. I _hate_ when you do this! Why can't you just act like a normal person?" 

Emily looks hurt. "I _am_ normal. And I'm just trying to help. You're obviously still bothered and embarrassed by this. We could talk through it," 

In eighth grade, Emily and I worked on a video documentary together. That was the first time I saw this side of Emily. Her journalist side. She found a way to get into our interviewees heads and twist their words around. She got me and Mary Anne and a lot of other kids to say things we didn't necessarily mean and in ways we didn't necessarily mean them. It was an enlightening experience, but not one I care to repeat. I don't want Emily in my head again, probing around my thoughts, and picking out the ones she finds thrilling and sensational. 

"I think I should go home," I tell her, shoving my things into my overnight bag. 

Emily opens her mouth and starts to say something, but thinks better of it. Instead, she nods and says, "All right, Stacey." 

Emily walks me to the front door and watches me drive away. I can tell she's disappointed. In my unwillingness to give in to her amateur psychology or in my leaving her alone, I'm not sure. Maybe both. 

Mr. Prezzioso's car is gone when I get home. It's only a little after ten. Obviously, Mom doesn't want to get caught. Sneaking around has become her second nature. Inside the house, Mom's seated at the kitchen table with her checkbook and a stack of bills. She smiles at me, completely oblivious to the fact that I know _exactly_ what went on last night. She's practically glowing. It's sickening. 

"Hi, sweetheart," she greets me. "How was the dance?" 

"Like any other dance," I reply, opening the fridge and taking out a diet coke. "Not too exciting." 

"Well, not every night can be an exciting one, I guess," Mom says, punching some numbers into her calculator. "What do you say we go to Washington Mall later? I need to go to the Exercise Shoppe and The Homestore. And we can pick up that diet food for Paddy." 

"Sounds good. There's an outfit I've been eyeing at Steven E.," 

Mom chuckles. "Good luck getting that," she says. 

"That's what Dad's credit card is for," 

"I don't think he gave that to you for clothes shopping," Mom says. "Speaking of your father, I think something came in the mail from him." Mom flips through a stack of mail and pulls out a plain white envelope. "Ohio postmark," she says, handing it to me. 

My hands tremble slightly and a nervous knot forms in my stomach. I can't help but feel hopeful. And a little scared. Dad and I have gone weeks without speaking after arguments. I'm always the one to call and patch things up. Or sometimes I write him a letter, explaining my feelings. He's never written me a letter though. I study the envelope. My name and address are typed on the front. There's no return address. Mom goes back to her checkbook, knowing that I need a little privacy. Slowly, I tear open the envelope and slip out the card. 

It's one of those pre-printed address cards, like you send to a distant cousin to let him know you moved. There's nothing special about it. It's cold and impersonal. This is what my father thinks of me. I am nothing more than a name in his address book. Maybe this is what he and Samantha have wanted for a long time, for me to slowly step out of their life and let them live it free and unburdened. 

"What is it, Stacey?" Mom asks, noticing the stunned and devastated look on my face. 

Mom stands up and crosses the kitchen to me. She plucks the card from my fingers. A dozen emotions pass over her face as she studies the card, finally settling on absolute rage. 

"Of all the nerve!" she shrieks. "He is the most self-centered, inconsiderate man I've ever known! This is the most immature..." Mom's so furious she can't even complete the sentence. 

"It doesn't matter," I tell her, taking back the card. I tear it in half and toss it into the trash can. I leave the kitchen and walk upstairs to my room. Once there, I don't know what to do. I sort of pace around for awhile, messing with the curtains, and putting away the cosmetics Julie and I left strewn on the dressing table. And when pacing isn't enough anymore, I fall onto the bed and bury my face in my pillow and cry. 

Somehow Mom knows when I've had enough crying. She comes in and sits on the bed and rubs my back. It's sort of our little ritual after my fights with Dad. There have been a lot of fights the last few years. I remember before the divorce doing the same ritual with my mother, only our roles were reversed. Dad has caused us nothing but pain and grief and tears for as long as I can remember. 

"I'm never speaking to him again," I sob, lifting my head from the pillow. 

"Oh, Stacey, that's not true," Mom says in a soft, soothing voice. 

"Yes, it is. Dad doesn't love me," 

"That's not true either. He loves you very much. You're the most important thing in the world to him," 

"No, I'm not. His job is the most important thing to him. It always has been. We always came second, you know that. Now Samantha's second. I'm third. And I think I'm barely that. He doesn't love me enough," 

"I don't think anyone's ever loved enough," Mom says, which isn't very comforting, but at least it's not a lie. 

Mom leaves me alone to rest. I lay in bed awhile feeling sorry for myself and after I'm done doing that, I feel a lot better. Downstairs, Mom's running the vacuum. I roll off the bed, close the door, and pick up the phone to call Mary Anne. 

"How did last night go?" I ask her when she comes to the phone. 

"Have you talked to Julie yet?" 

"No. I haven't talked to anyone. Why, did something happen?" 

Mary Anne's quite for a moment, then starts to laugh. "You left way too soon last night," she tells me. 

"What happened?" 

Mary Anne laughs harder. "Oh, I shouldn't be laughing. I'm terrible. But it really is funny," 

"What is it?" I ask, irritably. 

"Remember Grace's date? Damian? Well, he got really drunk, which of course, made Grace furious. So, she started chewing him out and..." Mary Anne laughs again. "he threw up all over the front of her dress! It was horrible! And really funny," 

"Seriously? You're not lying?" 

"I swear, it's the truth!" 

Poor Grace. How humiliating. First the sprinklers, then getting vomited on. Maybe Emily's right though and it simply is her comeuppance. "Well, I can't say I'm sorry I missed it. You know how I hate seeing people throw up," 

"Yeah, I know. After it happened, I thought 'I wish Stacey was here' but then I thought 'wait, no I don't'. I probably shouldn't be laughing about it. Grace is my friend, but...the look on her face was priceless!" 

Mary Anne and I talk for another half an hour. I don't tell her about last night (any of it) even though she asks. She doesn't press the issue. When we hang up, I feel much more cheerful. I almost even forget about Dad. I pick up the phone again and dial Julie's number. 

"I can't believe what happened last night!" I exclaim when Julie answers. 

"Huh?" 

"I just got off the phone with Mary Anne! She told me all about it. Did you almost die?" 

Silence. 

"Julie?" 

"Mary Anne told you?" she asks. 

"Yes! I just got off the phone with her," 

"I can't believe she told you," 

"Of course she told me! I'm her best friend. It's not like it's a secret," 

"Wait...what are you talking about?" Julie asks, sounding confused. 

"Grace getting vomited on," I reply, also confused. "Why, what are you talking about?" 

There's a long pause on the other end. "Nothing," she finally says. "Sorry, Stacey, I have to go. We're re-staining the kitchen cabinets." Julie hangs up without saying goodbye. 

I set down the receiver and stare at it. Another knot starts twisting in my stomach. Mary Anne and Julie are keeping something from me. What could they possibly not be telling me? I don't tell them all my secrets, but still, I don't want them hiding any from me. I thought Mary Anne told me everything. Obviously, I was wrong. 

I feel like the world's closing in on me. Everyone's disappointing me, everyone's hiding things from me, no one is who I thought. 

There's no use wasting more of the day sitting around and thinking of all the lies I've been told today and yesterday and all the days before. I change my sweater, brush my hair, grab my purse and jacket, and head downstairs to see if Mom's ready to go to the mall. She's not in the living room or kitchen and I don't hear her upstairs. I look out the kitchen window and see her in the backyard. She and Mr. Pike are at the fence again. Mr. Pike's rocking one of the posts back and forth while shaking his head. Mom's shaking her head too. I guess they're disagreeing. About the fence? Or something else? I don't know what to think of my mother anymore. 

The Pike's back door opens and Mrs. Pike charges out. She's wrapped in a cardigan that probably belongs to Mr. Pike, like she threw it on in a hurry. She's frowning, but doesn't appear angry exactly. She stops to stand beside Mr. Pike and slips her arm through his. Mom takes a step back. Mrs. Pike says something, still frowning. Mom looks down. Mr. Pike looks away and gives the fence post another shake. 

And any confidence I had in my mother's innocence quickly blows away on a cold October wind. 


	14. Chapter 14

At Homecoming, I said everything was going to change. I was right. Everything's changing between my friends and I. I guess Homecoming's not necessarily to blame. There are other factors, but they all blend together and at their core is Homecoming. Of course, things are always changing. That's life and it's inevitable. Homecoming just got some kind of ball rolling and sped up the momentum of change. Our group is different now and we're all different even in the smallest ways, but in life, even the smallest changes matter and we'll never be the same. 

It's only Thursday, not even an entire week after Homecoming. It's amazing all the little things that can happen in less than a week, all the little alterations people can make to their lives. Grace is having the worst reign as Queen in school history. Her picture is plastered all over school and normally Grace would love it, if only the pictures didn't show her getting blasted in the face with a sprinkler. Grace hasn't said much about it. She spends a lot of time hiding in the library now. We're used to her mood swings. She'll be sulky and cranky for another week or two, then snap out of it. It's best to give her some space. Her moods always manage to correct themselves. 

Grace isn't the only one in hiding. All week Emily has sequestered herself in the journalism room before school, during lunch, and after school. It's nothing personal. It's just Emily. We haven't discussed our argument. I keep expecting Emily to bring it up, but I guess she's been too stressed and frazzled to think about me and my problems. I know Emily too well to think she'll let it drop. 

Mary Anne and Julie have become expertly skilled at avoiding each other. I haven't heard them utter a word to each other all week. Mary Anne pretends nothing's out of the ordinary. She doesn't answer any of my questions, at least not with answers that mean anything. Julie's avoiding me too. She stays hunched over her desk all through journalism, averts her eyes in the hallways, and even moved up a seat in calculus to sit beside Grace. At lunch, she eats with a group of girls from the volleyball team. I never thought Julie could be so good at keeping a secret. 

I feel things changing between Mary Anne and me, too. I know she's keeping secrets. She shares one with Julie and it's driving me mad that she won't share it with me. Maybe I'm jealous. I have long been Mary Anne's confidante. That she would trust Julie and not me is sort of like a slap in the face. Of course, Emily and I share a secret that I won't tell Mary Anne. That's different. I don't want Mary Anne to think less of me. I'm protecting her. 

"Do you think Julie's mad at me?" I ask Mary Anne at lunch. 

It's just Mary Anne and I at our lunch table, which has become the norm this week. On the other side of the cafeteria, Julie's sitting with most of the varsity volleyball team. She's laughing and acting like her usual self. 

"Why would Julie be mad at you?" Mary Anne asks. 

"We had sort of an argument Friday night. Did she say anything to you about it?" 

Mary Anne shakes her head. "No, she didn't say a thing," 

"Then she must be mad at you," I say, casually. I think I'm being rather clever. 

Mary Anne stares at her sandwich and shrugs. "Julie's moody," she says, which we both know is totally untrue. Julie is the least moody person I know. 

"Mary Anne, is there something you're not telling me?" 

"No! How many times do I have to tell you?" Mary Anne snaps. 

"Sorry," I mumble. I decide to switch the subject. I don't need to argue with Mary Anne. I have to accept that she'll tell me when she tells me. "What do you think about tomorrow's edition of the _Gazette_?" I ask. 

"You know what I think of it," Mary Anne replies still sounding crabby. 

This week's _Gazette_ is a contentious topic among Mary Anne, Emily, Julie, and I. After someone turned Jessi in for resetting the sprinkler timer at Homecoming, Emily decided to make the now infamous sprinkler incident the focus of this week's front page Homecoming story. Instead of a nice, dry photo of the Homecoming Court, Emily's running one of everyone racing off the field while Grace screams her head off. Emily claims it's her duty as editor-in-chief to report the whole story, not just the pieces that won't offend her friends. Mary Anne, Julie, and I disagree. Emily says we don't understand journalistic integrity. Maybe so, but when Grace sees that photo, she's going to snap Emily's neck. 

Thankfully, the bell rings before Mary Anne can snap at me anymore. When I'm irritated with Mary Anne, I get over it fairly quickly and Mary Anne forgive me and we move on. Mary Anne does not provide me with the same courtesy. She holds a grudge and her silent treatment is the coldest I've ever experienced. Usually, I feel bad when she does this, but not today. I've not done anything wrong. There's no reason for her to be mad at me. Unless it's simply her guilty conscience. Whatever her reasoning, Mary Anne and I don't speak much the rest of the day. 

I lied before. I said I'd let Mary Anne tell me when she tells me. By the end of the day, I can't control my curiosity any longer. Curiosity coupled with growing irritation does not make a person strong. I _have_ to know. Mary Anne won't crack, but Julie's easier to crack than a walnut with a hammer. Julie knows that. It's why she's avoided me all week. 

After Math Club, I drive to Julie's house. It's almost four, so I hope she's not at practice. It's a very gray day and Julie's house looks dark against the gray backdrop. It looks like no one's home, but Paul answers the door when I ring the bell. Usually I love the Sterns' house because it has the warm, lived-in feel of a family. It's never too messy or too neat. It's the type of home I wish were mine. But today the house is dark and cold. Paul doesn't give me an explanation, just points me down the hall to Julie's room, so maybe he doesn't even notice the difference. I guess a home doesn't seem so wonderful when you live there every day. 

Julie's in her bedroom, which she shares with her older sister. The door's open and all the lights are on. Julie's bedroom is like the rest of the house, not too messy and not too neat. The wallpaper is yellowing with faded pink flowers, but hardly noticeable under all the posters Julie and her sister have taped to the walls. There's too much furniture in the room, crammed tightly together against every wall and in every corner. Julie's seated at her desk, bent over a pile of homework that's strewn all over. She's wearing her volleyball uniform with her blonde hair pulled back into a neat, tight ponytail. 

"Hey, Julie," I say after standing in the doorway for awhile. 

Julie glances up and acts surprised, like she didn't know I was there and like she didn't hear me talking to Paul. 

"Stacey, hi. What are you doing here?" she asks. 

I shrug, trying to seem casual. "Just stopping by. Did you just come home from practice?" 

"No, we have a game at six," 

I almost ask why she's already dressed for a game that doesn't start for two hours, but that's not important right now. Besides, Julie's logic tends to defy the logic of the rest of the universe. I sit down on Julie's bed, which sags from too many years of Julie jumping on it. Julie continues to work on her homework, determined not to speak to me. 

"Julie..." I start, deciding to ease into this slowly. "Are you mad at me?" 

"No," Julie replies not looking up from her notebook. 

"You aren't angry about Friday night? When we argued about my mom and Mr. Prezzioso?" 

"No. Why would I be? That was stupid. It wasn't even a real argument," 

"Are you mad at Mary Anne then?" 

Julie sets down her pencil and spins around in her chair to face me. "Why would you think that?" Julie asks. 

"I'm not an idiot, Julie. Something happened after I left Dorianne's. What are you and Mary Anne hiding?" 

Julie hesitates. "Well..." 

"Yes?" I prod. It was even easier to break her silence than I thought. 

Julie sighs. "After Grace's date vomited all over her, she stormed out in a rage. The party was winding down, so Mary Anne and I decided to leave too. We figured we'd walk since Grace's house is just a block from Dorianne's. Well, remember how everyone put their coats in the laundry room? Mary Anne and I had to get our coats, but the door was locked. I banged on it a couple times, but no one answered. Then I saw the lock on the door was a cheap one, like we have here at our house. You can turn the lock with your fingernail. It's a pretty useless lock. Anyway, I unlocked the door and opened it...and Pete Black was sitting on the washing machine and Dorianne was going down on him," 

That's what they've been keeping from me? That's what's so terrible that Mary Anne and Julie can't eat at the same lunch table anymore? The hesitant look on Julie's face tells me there's more. 

"What else?" I demand. 

"Well..." Julie says dragging out the word. "Mary Anne kind of went berserk. I mean, I was upset too because Pete was sitting on my coat, but Mary Anne majorly freaked out. She said to Pete, 'how can you do this to me? This is what you think of me?' and Pete said, 'we aren't together anymore.' And Mary Anne said, 'I'm going to get you for this, Pete. Two can play this game!' then she called Dorianne a tramp and ran off. I almost asked for my coat back, but instead just shut the door. I looked for Mary Anne and when I saw her, she was leaving with Brian Hall. She was practically dragging him out the door. She didn't say goodbye or anything. I had to call my dad to pick me up. I didn't even go to Grace's." 

I feel like Julie just smacked me over the head with a board. Mary Anne's not like that. Mary Anne wouldn't...just to get back at Pete. But Julie's obviously drawn the same conclusions that are currently running through my head. 

"I never did get my coat back," Julie adds. 

I still can't speak. Mary Anne, who I've held throughout high school as my model of virtue and good sense would never use a boy to make another jealous. She'd never go to such lengths and compromise her morals. And I shouldn't assume the worse, but I do. The last few weeks have taught me to expect the worse and not be too shocked when it happens. 

"I didn't want to tell you," Julie says, "because Mary Anne's your best friend. If it had been anyone else, I'd have blabbed to the whole school. But this is Mary Anne. I wouldn't spread speculations about her or what she did. And she was probably just trying to make Pete jealous. Although I don't know why since they broke up almost six months ago." 

"I need to go home," I tell Julie, standing up and sliding my book bag over my shoulder. 

"I'm sure it was completely innocent," Julie says, sounding like she wants to convince me as much as herself. 

I nod and leave the room. 

My house isn't very far from Julie's, so the drive is a short one. It's not enough time to think. I circle my block a few times, still processing what Julie told me. There's another knot twisting in my stomach, the knot that keeps showing up. A knot of bitter disappointment and betrayal. I shouldn't assume these things about Mary Anne. I should be a better friend. I doubt her still and almost hate her for not being the person I need. Some best friend she turned out to be. 

Not that I'm such a fantastic best friend either. 

My house is dark and cold like Julie's. I walk through all the rooms, turning on every light and opening every curtain. Then I turn the heater on. Mom has another date with Mr. Prezzioso, so I fix soup and a grilled cheese sandwich for dinner. I eat it in front of the television with Paddy curled up at my feet. He's comforting just by being there and makes the evening a little less lonely. I worry I might become one of those crazy cat ladies. At least a cat won't have an affair, or move to Ohio, or leave a party with a boy for the possible purpose of going down on him. 

After brooding and sulking and thinking hateful thoughts for about an hour, the front door opens and Mom walks in. She's in a bulky black coat with a gray-striped scarf wrapped several times around her neck. Her cheeks are bright red. She looks cold and irritated. 

"I thought Mr. Prezzioso was taking you to dinner and a play," I say, a bit crabbily. I thought I'd have the entire evening alone in my anger. 

Mom unwraps the scarf from around her neck and tosses it over the couch. "He was. We got as far as Tokyo House. Actually, we got as far as the Tokyo House lobby," Mom unbuttons her coat and hangs it up in the closet. 

"Did you have a fight?" I ask. 

"No, just an argument," 

"What about?" 

"Something silly. You know how arguments start. A tiny thing that annoys you reminds you of all the other things that annoy you. It was the same thing with your father," 

"You've said Mr. Prezzioso's nothing like Dad," In fact, she's said it about fifty times. 

Mom sighs. "He isn't. I guess that's part of the problem. Not that I _want_ to be with someone like your father. Your father is a workaholic and stubborn and controlling and..." Mom stops, looking embarrassed. She sighs again. "Well, at least he can make a decision. Nick is so wishy-washy." 

Wishy-washy? I almost laugh. "Did you break up?" I ask, somehow succeeding to not sound hopeful. 

Mom looks surprised. "Break up? Of course not. You don't stop loving someone because of a silly argument," 

Mom walks out of the living room and into the kitchen, so she misses the stunned look on my face. _Loving someone_? Mom's _in love_ with Mr. Prezzioso? I start to feel sick again. This is terrible, terrible news. Visions of Jenny Prezzioso prancing around the house in a pinafore pop into my head. 

_Like you loved Mr. Pike?_ I almost ask when Mom walks back into the living room. Then I think, _why not?_ I can't go on wondering forever. I have to confront Mom sometime. Usually, I hate confrontation, but I succeeded with Julie. Mom sits down in the armchair and opens a magazine. She doesn't look irritated anymore, like maybe she's already forgiven Mr. Prezzioso. She looks so innocent sitting in the armchair, not at all like a woman who slept with her supposed best friend's husband. I almost believe _is_ innocent. 

Almost. 

"Mom..." 

"Hmm?" 

"Before...you said...are you in love with Mr. Prezzioso?" That seems like a safe place to start. 

Mom looks surprised and blushes slightly. "Did I say that?" she asks. 

"No, but you said you don't stop loving someone because of a silly argument," 

"Oh, well, that's true. You don't," 

"Well, do you?" 

"Do I what?" 

I feel myself growing hot with anger. She's deliberately being difficult. Why can't anyone be straight with me? Why can't anyone tell me the outright truth? It's just a simple question. Mom can't tell me the truth about _anything_. 

"Are you in love with Mr. Prezzioso?" I demand, my voice rising. 

"Don't take that tone with me, Anastasia," Mom snaps. 

"Stop lying to me!" I shout. 

"What are you talking about? I'm not lying to you about anything!" Mom looks more confused than angry. For some reason, that makes me even angrier. She should _know_. 

I leap up off the couch, scaring Paddy from the room. I feel like I'm on the edge about to fall over. I feel completely out of control. It's Mom and it's everything. I can't hold it all in anymore. 

"You're always lying to me, Mom!" I shriek. 

Mom jumps out of the armchair, still looking like she can't decide which emotion to feel. "Stacey, I don't know what you're talking about!" she cries. "Are you having a bad insulin reaction?" 

"Mom, I know all about your affair!" I shout. 

The room falls completely silent. 

"Who told you about that?" Mom asks quietly. 

Any faith I had left in my mother crumbles. It's true. As much as I suspected, as much as I worried, I never wanted it to be true. I wanted her to laugh or yell and say I was foolish for believing. I wanted her to assure me that not everyone will disappoint me. 

"How could you do that, Mom?" I ask, choking on anger and tears. "How could you sleep with Mr. Pike?" 

"Mr. Pike?" Mom repeats, confusion washing over her face. "Me and John Pike? I didn't have an affair with Mr. Pike! I had an affair with Nick Prezzioso!" 

I'm stunned into silence. Mom and I stare at each other. "But...Mallory said..." I say, finding my voice. "Mallory told me you slept with her dad! That's why we got into the fight. I was defending your honor! And that's why Mrs. Pike hates you! Because you slept with her husband! Why are you still lying to me?" 

"I'm not lying to you, Stacey," Mom replies in an eerily calm voice. "I never slept with John. Mrs. Pike and I...our friendship ended because...she's the one who discovered the affair. Nick and I were here on our lunch breaks and Mrs. Pike came over. She told Madeleine Prezzioso." 

So, that's what Mallory overheard. Mrs. Pike was never crying about Mom and Mr. Pike having an affair. She was crying about Mom and Mr. _Prezzioso_ having an affair. Mallory totally misunderstood. 

"Mr. Prezzioso left Mrs. Prezzioso for you," I say in a voice completely void of emotion. I have no emotions left. Life has drained them from me. 

Mom chuckles. "Of course not. That would involve making a decision. Madeleine left Nick," 

"Because of you," I tell her. "Mom...you're a whore." 

I expect Mom to yell at me or slap me, but instead she sinks into the couch and collapses into tears. She buries her face in her hands. I don't know if I feel sorry for her. How can I ever trust her again? I leave her on the couch, sobbing, and walk quietly up to my bedroom. I close the door and turn the lock. 


	15. Chapter 15

In the morning I feel drained and empty, like a sponge that's been wrung too tight. I'm not sure how I slept last night. I don't even know _when_ I slept last night. I certainly don't remember falling asleep. Maybe I lay awake all night and didn't even realize it. 

Mom and I didn't speak at all last night. After I locked myself in my bedroom, I took out my homework because there wasn't anything else to do. I couldn't call any of my friends. What would I say? I couldn't even call Mary Anne, who is supposed to be my best friend. 

Downstairs, I could hear mom crying. She cried for a long time, then the phone rang and she cried on the phone. I figured it had to be Mr. Prezzioso. They talked for quite awhile and I wondered what they were discussing, but didn't have the nerve to open the door and eavesdrop. I guess deep down I didn't really want to know. I hoped she was breaking up with him. I knew better. She didn't let a wife and two kids stand in the way, so why should I matter? 

I don't really decide not to go to school. I just don't go. I just lay in bed and listen to Mom walking up and down the stairs and opening and closing the refrigerator. It's like it's a regular day at the McGill house. But it's not. It will never be a regular day again. Mom knocks lightly on my door and reminds me to eat breakfast and take my insulin. She tries to sound cheerful, but her voice cracks and sounds very fake. I don't answer. 

I lay in bed for another half hour after she leaves. I can't put it off any longer, so finally I get out of bed and eat breakfast and inject myself. Then I grab Paddy and go back upstairs and climb into bed again. Paddy curls up beside me and purrs while I stroke his fur. I consider the advantages of becoming a crazy cat lady. At least then I wouldn't have anyone to disappoint but myself. 

My mind drifts back to Mom and Mr. Prezzioso. It's funny because in a way I'm relieved. I'm relieved to finally know the truth. No more wondering, no more worrying. Not knowing was the worst part. Now I don't have to feel guilty about doubting my mother and thinking terrible thoughts about her. Those doubts and thoughts are justified now. I have a right to them because they're true. 

I'm not even sure I'm angry at Mom anymore. I think I'm just disappointed and embarrassed. It's horribly self-centered but I think of all the times she and Mr. Prezzioso stood out by his car talking and laughing and she'd reach out and touch his arm and I wonder now - was the entire neighborhood watching, knowing what they'd done? And all the times they went to restaurants and the cinema was everyone watching them there? Maybe all of Stoneybrook knows and I'm just the last to learn the truth. Kids at school who I don't even know, their parents may say to them, "do you know Stacey McGill? Her mom's a homewrecker and a whore." I must be a very selfish person to worry only about how Mom's reputation affects me. 

I run a bath for myself and pour strawberry papaya-scented bubblebath under the faucet. The phone's ringing, but I ignore it. I twist my hair up and clip it, then slide into the bath. I compile a list in my mind of all the possible people who know about Mom and Mr. Prezzioso. There's Mrs. Prezzioso, of course and that brother she lives with. Mrs. Pike surely told Mr. Pike and Mallory overheard her telling Mrs. DeWitt, who no doubt told _her_ husband. Would the Pikes and DeWitts tell anyone else? Probably not. Mr. Prezzioso has a sister. Maybe he told her. Mrs. Prezzioso would never tell a soul. Appearances matter too much to her. She wouldn't humiliate herself by blabbing about her husband's affair. Mary Anne, Grace, and Mallory think Mom slept with Mr. Pike, so they go on a completely different list. I have no idea how I'm going to clear _that_ up. 

My bath isn't very relaxing. The phone keeps ringing, which is quite annoying. Whoever it is needs to give up and leave me alone. I step out of the bath and dry off, then go back to my room to dress. 

It's weird how emotions work. I'm looking out my bedroom window while tying my sneaker and suddenly I realize that I'm very angry with Mrs. Pike. I don't know where the anger comes from. I just look out the window and see her house and all this anger rushes over me. She should have kept her mouth shut. She was supposed to be Mom's best friend. If she hadn't blabbed to Mrs. Prezzioso, then maybe the Prezziosos wouldn't have gotten divorced. Mom wouldn't have waited forever. And I would be blissfully unaware of my mother's secret life as an adulteress. 

Misplaced anger. None of this is Mrs. Pike's fault. She had to choose between two friends and for whatever reason, she didn't choose my mother. I can't blame her for what she thought was right. This entire situation is the fault of Mom and Mr. Prezzioso and their complete disregard for the sanctity of marriage. Selfish, selfish, selfish. 

Downstairs, I turn on the television. It's noon and all that's on are soap operas. I watch anyway. The phone rings again and I ignore it until the answering machine clicks on and Mary Anne's voice fills the room. 

"Stacey?" she says in a slightly panicked voice. "Stacey? Are you there? Pick up!" 

I jump off the couch and dash for the phone. "Mary Anne?" I answer. "What's wrong?" 

"Oh, good, you're there!" 

It suddenly dawns on me that I never called Mary Anne to tell her I couldn't drive her to school. "Oh, Mary Anne, I'm sorry about this morning - " 

"It's okay," Mary Anne interrupts. "Your mom called me. She said you were sick. I don't blame you for not coming to school." 

"What?" I say, but Mary Anne doesn't hear me. She's busy whispering to someone. "Mary Anne, where are you?" I ask. 

"At the pay phone outside the cafeteria. Erica's here, too. Stacey, you've missed everything!" 

"What did I miss?" 

"Emily and Julie just got suspended!" 

I drop the phone. 

"Emily _Bernstein_ and Julie _Stern_?" I say when I pick the phone up and recover from the shock. 

"Yes! They just left with their parents. Erica was in the office. She said it was horrible!" 

"Mary Anne, I don't understand what you're talking about. _Why_ did Emily and Julie get suspended?" 

Mary Anne's silent a moment. "You mean you don't _know_?" she asks. 

I sigh, completely exasperated. "How would I know? I've been in bed all morning," 

Mary Anne starts whispering to Erica, then comes back on the line. "Sorry, Stacey, I thought you were part of it." 

"Part of _what_?" I reply, losing my patience. Talking in circles is tiresome. 

"The new issue of the _Gazette_ came out this morning. And you know that photo of Grace? Where she's practically throwing a tantrum on the field? It wasn't on the front page. It was just a normal photo of the Homecoming Court," Mary Anne explains. 

"I didn't know Emily changed her mind," 

"She didn't. Emily was furious when she saw it. So was Mr. Arden. Stacey, Julie replaced the photo. She changed it after Emily and Mr. Arden signed off on the issue. And she admitted it, as soon as Mr. Arden confronted her. Emily went ballistic. I've never seen her so mad. Then Mr. Arden took them both out into the hall and the three of them got into a huge argument," 

"Wow," I gasp. I can't believe Julie would do that. Messing with the issue without Mr. Arden or Emily's permission...that's bad. It's grounds for getting kicked off the newspaper. Or worse. "Wait - so why did _Emily_ get suspended?" 

"We don't know. After journalism, Emily and Julie left for third period. It seemed like the matter was settled, more or less. But I guess Mr. Arden turned Julie in to Mrs. Monroe or something. Erica's an office aide fourth period and Emily and Julie were called into Mrs. Monroe's office. Then the Bernsteins and Mr. Stern and Mr. Arden came in," Mary Anne tells me. I hear Erica whispering to her. Mary Anne says, "And then everyone started yelling at each other! Well, not everyone. Erica thinks it was Mr. Stern and Mr. Arden. After about half an hour, everyone came out again and Emily was crying and the Bernsteins and Mr. Stern looked furious. When they were gone, Mrs. Monroe came out and told the secretary that Emily and Julie weren't allowed back until Tuesday," Mary Anne takes a deep breath. "And Stacey...Erica says the secretary has been calling your house and your mom's office for the past hour." 

"Why?" 

"Because you didn't come to school today," 

"So? Mom has three days to excuse my absence," 

There's a long pause on Mary Anne's end. Finally, she lets out a breath and says, "Stacey, everyone thinks you helped Julie switch the photo." 

"What?" I cry, almost dropping the phone again. Even when I'm not around disaster manages to find me. 

"Everyone thinks you chickened out. I'm sorry, Stacey, but I thought so too. I thought you and Julie planned this together. I'm sorry. Mr. Arden and Emily are really mad at you. Mr. Arden called you a coward for allowing Julie to take the rap alone. Erica says Mrs. Monroe plans to suspend you, but no one can find your mother," 

"She's at the new store in New Hope today," I reply in this strange, empty voice. I hardly recognize it as my own. It's so unfair. I can't catch a break. 

There's more whispering on Mary Anne's end, very muffled like she's holding her hand over the receiver. 

"Stacey?" says a strange voice when the whispering stops. "This is Erica. We're going to Mrs. Monroe's office right now. Try to find your mother. We'll get this straightened out. Don't worry. It's just a picture. It shouldn't be such a big deal." 

But it _is_ a big deal. Erica doesn't understand. There are ethics even in high school journalism. You don't switch photos just because someone might get hurt. Just like you don't switch text or slip in unapproved ads or stories. Emily may be unreasonable sometimes, but she's still in charge. 

I say goodbye to Erica and Mary Anne, then sit down on the stairs and cry. Everything's falling apart. My life just gets worse and worse. I'm not doing anything to deserve all of this. I'm just living my life and all this stuff is happening around me. I can't have even a single day of normalcy. I can't live like this much longer. 

Crying won't solve anything. I wipe my eyes and swear to not cry the rest of the day. I'm done with tears and self-pity. I wash my face and drink a glass of orange juice. Surprisingly, two very simple things make me feel ten times better. After rinsing out my glass, I sit down on the stool beside the kitchen phone and dial Mom's office number. Of course, Mom's not there. So I dial the extension for Ms. Blair, the personnel director at Bellair's. She gives me the number for the store in New Hope. 

The phone at the New Hope Bellair's rings nine times before someone finally answers. The store hasn't opened yet, so I guess they don't have many phones hooked up. I have to wait a really long time while they page Mom. Whoever answered the phone doesn't put me on hold, just sets the phone down wherever so I hear _"Maureen McGill, please come to Customer Service"_ over and over. For some reason, it's extremely depressing. 

I break my promise to myself as soon as Mom comes on the line. I start crying again. I manage to get the story out between sobs, although I'm not sure how much sense it makes. Part of me feels guilty for crying to Mom after calling her a whore. And part of me feels that she owes it to me to listen and understand. When I finish with the story and the tears, Mom says, "Oh, sweetheart, I'll be right there," because even after everything, she's still my mother. 

It's at least a half hour drive from New Hope. I can't just sit around the house waiting. I write Mom a note and stick it on the front door. I don't feel like driving, so I wheel my bicycle out of the garage. Then I realize the back tire's flat, so I put the bicycle back into the garage. I start walking. It's a bitterly cold day. I put on a pair of gloves I find in the pocket of my ivory parka and flip the fur-lined hood up over my head. I got the parka from Mary Anne's grandma. It was originally meant for Dawn, but she objects even to fake fur. 

I walk the long way to Rosedale Road, mainly so I don't have to pass the Bernsteins' house. Julie's house looks deserted, but I hear a _thump, thump_ coming from the backyard. I unlatch the gate and the Sterns' dog, Holly, throws herself against it, barking. Holly's a pitbull-lab mix and she terrified me the first few times I came to Julie's house. Now I know she's too dumb to be terrifying. 

Julie's at the side of the house, standing on the Sterns' tetherball court. She's jumping across the line, onto each side of the court, and blocking her own shots. She looks over when I come through the gate and catches the ball. 

"Hi Stace," she says in a flat, unJulie-like voice. "Wanna play?" 

Julie swings the ball over to me, but I don't move to catch it. It swings slowly back and forth between us. 

"Did Mrs. Monroe call your mom?" she asks. 

I shake my head. "My mom's in New Hope. Or she was. She's coming back. Mary Anne called me. I can't believe what you did!" 

Julie shrugs. She doesn't look guilty or ashamed at all. How can she stand there completely calm and unfazed? 

"Erica says I'm going to be suspended too," I tell her. 

"I don't think so. I told Mr. Arden you weren't involved. I told Mrs. Monroe too. I mean, they didn't really believe me, but they can't prove anything," 

"That's not very comforting," 

"I'm sorry, Stacey," Julie replies and she really does look sorry. "I tried to convince them. I really did." 

I really can't be mad at her because it's not her fault. She didn't set out to frame me or make me her accomplice. "So, why did Mrs. Monroe suspend Emily?" I ask. 

"Because she's a jerk," Julie replies. I assume she means Mrs. Monroe and not Emily. "Just like Mr. Arden's a jerk. He didn't have to report me to Mrs. Monroe. He yelled at me out in the hall the entire class period. You'd think that was enough. No one outside journalism would have even known about the photo swap. Mr. Arden takes his position too seriously, just like Emily. The _Gazette_ is a high school paper, not the damn _Washington Post_. Anyway, he went to Mrs. Monroe and got her all riled up about nothing, so she called me and Emily into her office. Well, Emily was plenty pissed at me over the photo, but she didn't think Mr. Arden would report me. She didn't want me to get into any real trouble. So, when Mrs. Monroe brought us into the office, Emily started majorly backpedalling. She said that maybe she'd made a mistake and put in the wrong photo after all. Of course, Mrs. Monroe and Mr. Arden knew she was lying and by that time, Mrs. Monroe seemed pretty sick of us, so she suspended both of us and called our parents." 

"That's really harsh," 

Julie shrugs again. "Yeah, I told you she's a jerk. The Bernsteins were ticked, of course. They think Emily's not going to get into college now. My dad was pissed too, partly because he had to leave work and partly because he thinks Mr. Arden's full of it. Dad agrees with me. It's just a high school paper. I mean, I love working on the _Gazette_. I'm proud of the paper, but it's not like I stabbed Emily with my exacto knife or printed naked photos of Mrs. Dowery," 

I laugh. "You should have told Mr. Arden that," 

"Oh, I did. He said, 'then maybe you shouldn't be working on our fine school paper,' and so I said, 'okay with me. I quit.'" 

My jaw drops. "You did not!" I exclaim. 

"I did," 

"But you're our layout artist!" 

"Not anymore," 

The more I get to know Julie, the more she confuses me. I'm a wreck inside and I've done nothing wrong, but Julie, who has all the blame on her shoulders and readily accepts that blame, stands there talking about it like she's talking about yesterday's homework assignment. Even when she's in trouble up to her eyeballs, I am envious of Julie. To be so relaxed and unaffected no matter what. How easy life is for Julie. 

"Why'd you do it?" I ask. 

Julie looks surprised. "Why do you think? Grace is my friend. Besides, Emily was acting like a tyrant. That photo wasn't necessary. Grace has been humiliated enough. On the football field, on the news, in the newspaper. No one's ever going to forget what happened. No one's ever going to let her live it down. Those photos will be in every Stoneybrook retrospective and at every high school reunion. Grace should have at least one article that reminds her of her few happy moments as Homecoming Queen," 

"But you chose Grace over Emily," I point out. 

"No, I didn't," Julie replies, perplexed. 

"Do you think Emily's going to forgive you for this?" 

"Of course. We've been friends since second grade," Julie says, but looks slightly concerned. Obviously, the thought had not occurred to her. "Emily will cool off in a couple days. Besides, the suspension might be good for her. Maybe it'll help dislodge the stick she has crammed up her ass." Julie laughs. 

I don't understand Julie at all. 

Julie apologizes again and I go back out front to wait for Mom. I sit down on the curb and look down the street at the Bernsteins' house. Emily's car is in the driveway. I don't consider going over. For all I know, Emily still believes in my guilt. Julie's right. Emily needs a couple days to cool off. 

Somehow talking to Julie calmed the nervous, panicked feeling in my stomach. The situation doesn't seem so bad anymore. Julie's right (again). Mr. Arden and Mrs. Monroe can't prove anything. And even if I am suspended, does it really matter? I know I'm innocent. My friends know I'm innocent. (Well, maybe not Emily, but she'll come around). Of all the terrible things in my life, this was a rather silly thing to get worked up over. I guess it's like my misplaced anger at Mrs. Pike. 

It occurs to me that Julie and Mrs. Pike are a lot alike. They both had to choose between two friends. It's not that they necessarily liked one friend more than the other. They chose to do what they thought was right. It wasn't easy for Mrs. Pike to put her loyalty to Mrs. Prezzioso above her loyalty to my mother. And despite her casualness, it couldn't have been easy for Julie to choose Grace over Emily. It's harder to make a choice than not do anything at all. 

Julie is a much better friend than me. I disagreed with Emily's photo choice, but wasn't willing to do anything about it. If Julie had approached me, would I have helped her switch the photos? Probably not. I would have stood on the sidelines and watched Emily and Julie fight it out afterward, just as I would have watched Emily and Grace fight it out. Mr. Arden was right. I am a coward. 

I'm also not a very good friend. I haven't been a good friend to Mary Anne or Grace or Emily or Julie. Especially not to Mary Anne. I've been realizing that a lot the last few weeks, but I've not done anything about it. All I do is think about it and promise myself to change. Unspoken promises don't count for much. Not when they're so easily broken. My world is changing all around me and it's time that I change too. 


	16. Chapter 16

I don't sit on the curb very long before Mom shows up. She looks concerned and confused and asks me to repeat the story. I tell her about everything - Grace's photo, the call from Mary Anne, my conversation with Julie. I don't leave out a single detail. It's refreshing to tell the whole truth for once. Mom doesn't interrupt, just nods occasionally, her lips drawn very tight. 

"And I swear, Mom," I tell her when the story comes to an end, "I didn't have anything to do with this." 

"I believe you, Stacey," Mom replies, which calms any nerves that were still even slightly rattled. "This is absolutely ridiculous. Talk about overreacting. Suspending girls over a photo in a high school newspaper. I can't believe I had to leave work for this!" 

"I'm sorry, Mom," 

"Well, it's not your fault. It sounds like you're the only completely blameless person in this mess," 

I stare out the window because I can't fully agree. Maybe if I had tried harder to convince Emily not to run the photo in the first place, then maybe this all wouldn't be happening now. I should have done more to stand up for Grace. In a completely indirect way, I guess I did contribute to the mess. 

"I'm surprised at Emily Bernstein," Mom says, pulling into the SHS parking lot. "Being willing to humiliate her friend like that." 

"She says she's building her portfolio," I explain, which sounds rather lame. Well, Emily _did_ stand up for Julie, even if she didn't stand up for Grace. That has to count for something. 

"Hmm," is all Mom says. 

Seventh period has just started, so the halls are deserted. It's strange walking through such quiet, empty halls. When we reach the main office, Mom charges straight up to the school secretary and says, "I'm Maureen McGill. I believe you've been trying to reach me?" 

"Oh...oh, yes, Mrs. McGill," the secretary replies, hesitantly. "Mrs. Monroe is in with a student right now. I wish you had called first. Mr. Arden is in class. I know they both wish to speak with you." 

"I drove all the way from New Hope, I think he can walk down the hall," Mom replies. 

The secretary frowns, but picks up the phone. Mom and I take a seat on the bench along the wall while the secretary whispers into the receiver. We only have to wait about five minutes before Mr. Arden walks into the office, obviously uncomfortable and wary of another angry parent. Perhaps next time he'll think twice before making unfounded accusations. Mr. Arden doesn't have a chance to say anything before Mrs. Monroe comes out of her office. She waves us in. 

Mom and I sit down in two chairs across from Mrs. Monroe's desk. At first I assume Mr. Arden will take the third chair, but instead he goes around the desk to stand beside Mrs. Monroe's chair. His and Mrs. Monroe's expressions are grim. Mom is right. They're totally overreacting. 

"Well, Stacey," begins Mrs. Monroe, settling into her chair. She's an older woman, probably in her late-fifties. She has a reputation for being tough, but I've never had a problem with her. Until now. "We've had some excitement around here today," she says. 

"My daughter has done nothing wrong," Mom tells her. 

"Is that true, Stacey?" asks Mrs. Monroe. 

"Yes. I wasn't part of Julie's plan. I heard nothing about it until lunchtime when Mary Anne Spier called me. I didn't switch the photos. Julie told you that. She was telling the truth," 

Mr. Arden clears his throat. "Julie Stern hasn't exactly proven herself trustworthy. She abused her position on the newspaper staff, as well as abused my trust in her. You must understand then, that I don't have a lot of faith in Julie's word." 

"Julie isn't a liar," I protest. "She admitted what she did. The only reason she switched the photos is because Emily and Mr. Arden were being unfair to Grace. That photo was humiliating. It was worse than the one they published in _The Stoneybrook News_." 

"I agree with Stacey," Mom says. "Now, Julie Stern is not one of my favorite people. She's loud and impulsive and asks inappropriate questions, but this time I think she did the right thing. Her heart was in the right place and if you ask me, you are both overreacting." 

Mr. Arden stands a little straighter and gives my mother an almost disgusted look. I can't believe how much I used to like him. "Mrs. McGill," he says, "in journalism, the end does not justify the means. In journalism, there's such a thing as ethics." 

"And where are the ethics in allowing a teenage girl to be embarrassed in front of the whole school - again?" Mom demands. "I'd say the only person on your journalism staff who even has any ethics is Julie Stern. And you should both be thanking Julie for switching that photo. Did either of you really want Hal and Fay Blume beating down your doors, demanding to know why that photo was allowed to be published? I am sure, Mrs. Monroe, that you already got an earful after the Homecoming game." 

Mrs. Monroe's face tightens and it's obvious that Mom's right. Mrs. Monroe leans forward and folds her hands on the desk and says in a slow, measured voice, "Mrs. McGill, it is not my job to control what goes in or does not go in the school newspaper. It is not Mr. Arden's job either. He is there to advise, to mediate, and to make sure things run smoothly. It is at the discretion of the editor, Emily Bernstein, to decide what articles and photos are published." 

"I understand," Mom snaps. "First, you put all the blame on Julie. Then, you decide my daughter should share in that blame. And now, you're blaming Emily Bernstein? So, this is everyone's fault, except the adults who _should_ be in charge? And since you've already suspended Julie and Emily for reasons I don't understand, now you also want to suspend Stacey, who has done nothing wrong?" 

Mrs. Monroe and Mr. Arden exchange a look. 

"Stacey will not be suspended," Mrs. Monroe says, shortly. "We cannot prove she was involved. Although her absence today seems a very suspicious coincidence. However, Stacey and Julie will not admit her guilt and so, I have no choice but to let Stacey off," Mrs. Monroe shoots me a withering look. "This time." 

Mom stands and motions for me to do the same. "Well, Mrs. Monroe, Mr. Arden, you've wasted enough of my time with this nonsense. Perhaps next time, we can do this over the phone, so I don't have to leave work. Come on, Stacey, let's go home." Mom puts her hand on my arm and steers me toward the door. 

"Stacey," Mr. Arden calls. 

I turn around, hoping that he will apologize and say that he has faith in me, that his skepticism was irrational and out-of-line, and we will start fresh on Monday. 

"Yes, Mr. Arden?" 

"The _Gazette_ is not a plaything for you and your friends. Don't disappoint me again," 

Disappointed? He has no idea how it feels to be disappointed in someone. Mom opens her mouth, prepared with some biting comment, but I step forward and she hesitates. I think of Julie standing up and sacrificing something she loves because she thought it was the right thing to do. It's time I do the same. 

"Mr. Arden," I say to him in the calmest tone I can manage, "I know I'm not the best writer, but for the last three years I've really loved working on the _Gazette_. It's an important part of my life and I'm proud of every issue we've turned out. Especially today's. I'm glad Julie switched the photos. I didn't help her, but I wish I had. It was the right thing to do. I think everyone knows that. You're just too wrapped up in your ideas about journalistic integrity and ethics to realize it. And Mr. Arden, I used to think you were a really great advisor, but I don't anymore. You don't trust us. I've lost your trust without doing anything wrong. You just assume the worst about me. And you've turned your back on Julie after one mistake. What I'm trying to say, Mr. Arden, is I quit too. I don't want to be apart of this anymore." 

Mr. Arden nods, but I can't exactly read the expression on his face. Relief? Relief that he's rid of troublemakers like me and Julie? He doesn't say anything. He just lets me go. 

When Mom and I leave the office, she slips her arm around me. It's funny how a simple gesture can melt away all the angry thoughts and words, like the gesture is somehow enough to wipe the slate clean. It amazes me how willing my mother is to come to my defense when I've hurt her and doubted her and judged her. I've long believed my father's love is conditional, but apparently my mother's is not. I don't know if I could be that forgiving. 

Maybe I can learn. 

"Thanks," I say to Mom when we're in the car. 

Mom nods and buckles her seatbelt. 

I promised myself I'd change. I promised that I'd be a better friend. I suppose that means being a better daughter, too. And in a way, Mom and I used to be friends. I miss that. I want that back again. It just might take awhile. 

"I'm sorry I called you a whore," 

Mom nods again, then turns to look at me, a strange expression on her face. She's thinking about how to respond and really, how does someone respond to such an apology? After a few seconds, Mom turns her eyes forward again and backs the car out of the parking spot. 

"Can you drop me off at Mary Anne's?" I ask when we pull onto the street. School will let out soon. I have some questions for Mary Anne. I have some things to confide to her, as well. 

Mom and I drive in silence for awhile. It's awkward, but I'm not sure what else I can say. 

"Stacey..." Mom finally says. "I...I don't want you to have the wrong impression of...that is...Nick and I didn't set out to have an affair. One day, we ran into each other at the bank," Mr. Prezzioso works at Stoneybrook Bank, "and we started talking. After that, it seemed like we saw each other everywhere. It started out innocently enough. There was an obvious attraction and then...we didn't plan it. It just happened. And it was wrong. Stacey, you're too young to know what it's like to be very unhappy for a very long time. Nick and I were both very unhappy people. I was lonely and Nick was stuck in a miserable marriage - " 

"But there are plenty of _single_ men you could have dated!" I protest, growing angry despite my promise to be a better, more understanding daughter. "And if Mr. Prezzioso was so miserable, then why didn't he try marriage counseling? Or get a divorce? Bringing a third person into the problem just creates a bigger problem!" I heard that on Oprah. It makes a lot of sense. 

Mom pulls into the Spiers' driveway and turns off the engine. Mr. Spier and Sharon are at work, so Mom and I don't have to worry about interruptions. 

"I dated men before Nick," says Mom, which is _sort of_ true. She dated a few, but none of those relationships lasted long. I think only about two actually even counted as relationships. "And Nick and Madeleine tried marriage counseling. It just wasn't working. The marriage was coming to an end." 

"You're just making excuses, Mom. Mr. Prezzioso didn't even leave Mrs. Prezzioso for you. She left him after Mrs. Pike told her about your affair. You said so yourself," 

Mom bites her lip and looks pained. I struck a nerve. 

"Oprah says that if he cheats with you, he'll cheat on you," I add. 

Mom stares at her hands, frowning. The conversation obviously isn't going as she planned. Did she honestly think a few weak explanations and excuses would be enough? That she could so effortlessly win me to her side? Maybe I should be on her side automatically simply because she is my mother. 

"It's more complicated than that," Mom says, still not looking at me. "You just - " 

"I know," I cut her off. "I don't understand." 

"Stacey...you can't help who you fall in love with," 

"But it's your choice how you act on those feelings," I point out. 

Mom knows I'm right. I see it in her face. No amount of excuses can mask that what she did was wrong. She can't explain away her guilt. She can't rationalize her affair. Mom may not admit it, but deep down, she knows. 

"Maybe it would make you feel better if Nick and I didn't see so much of each other for awhile," Mom suggests. "I realize that this is uncomfortable for you. We shouldn't have sneaked around for so long. I should have told about us. I never wanted you to know about the affair though. I never wanted you to think of me as a homewrecker...even if it's true." 

I slide my hands into the pockets of my jacket and stare out the window. At least Mom's trying. At least she's making an attempt to win back my loyalty and trust. That's more than I can say for some people. I want to believe her. I want to believe that she is sorry and full of regrets. I want to believe she will make it up to me. And really, I have no option but to believe her. I can't stay angry and resentful and unforgiving forever. A small part of me will always feel a little angry and betrayed. And I may never completely forgive her for the way she has disappointed and deceived me. But she is my mother. 

"Maybe we can start over," I reply. "We can't pretend this never happened, but we can move on from it. And, I guess you don't need to see less of Mr. Prezzioso. That's not going to change anything." It won't solve anything either. Mom won't give him up and I can't pretend she might. Sooner or later, their relationship will return to how it is now. Stalling it won't matter. Like every relationship, theirs must run its course. That doesn't mean I have to approve or accept it. I just have to accept that it's happening. And hope it won't last. 

"Mary Anne's going to be home soon," I tell Mom. 

She nods. "I should get back to work. We'll talk more tonight," 

I open my door and step out of the car. I lean back inside. "Thanks again, Mom, for standing up for me," 

Mom smiles and starts the car. "Of course," she replies. "That's my job." 

I close the door and watch Mom drive away. I feel much better about Mom and me. I hope the feeling lasts. Who knows, tomorrow I may wake up and feel angry again. Forgiveness takes time. It won't happen overnight. 

I sit down on the steps in front of Mary Anne's house. Tigger, her gray-striped cat, appears from under a nearby bush. He runs to me, mewing, and throws himself at my feet. He rolls around and puts on a private show for me until Erica Blumberg's car turns into the driveway. Mary Anne and Erica are both surprised to see me. Despite her curious expression, Erica doesn't get out of the car. She says something to Mary Anne, waves at me, then backs out of the drive when Mary Anne closes the passenger side door. 

"What happened, Stacey?" Mary Anne cries, rushing toward the steps. "Are you suspended? Mrs. Monroe wouldn't even talk to Erica and me!" 

"No, I'm not suspended. Let's go inside," 

Mary Anne unlocks the door and lets us into the house. I take Mary Anne's things upstairs to her room while she goes to the kitchen to fix us a snack. Mary Anne knows I have to stick to a strict eating schedule. Plus, I didn't really eat any lunch. Mary Anne returns from the kitchen with crackers and cheese and glasses of diet ginger ale. We sit cross-legged on her bed with the plate between us. I glance around her room. I haven't been in it for awhile. Mary Anne doesn't issue invites to her house very often anymore. Her room appears to be the same as always, except - 

"Are you going somewhere?" I ask her, pointing to the half-filled suitcase sitting open on her desk chair. 

Mary Anne glances at the suitcase and blushes slightly. "Oh, yeah. I planned to call you this afternoon. We just decided last night. Grandma and I are going to New York for the weekend. We're taking the five-fifteen train this evening. Grandma hasn't been to New York very much and...she thought it'd be nice for me. Uh...Dad and Sharon have been fighting a lot." 

Aren't they always? But I don't say that to Mary Anne. She obviously doesn't need reminding. 

"Oh," is all I say. "Have fun." 

Mary Anne nods. "Thanks. So...are you going to tell me what happened? I'm sorry I thought you were part of it," 

"It's okay. I understand," I reply, then I lean back against the wall and repeat the entire story, everything from when Mary Anne called at lunchtime to when Mom and I left Mrs. Monroe's office. I'll be sick of telling the story by the end of the weekend. Mary Anne listens intently, gasping in all the right places. She makes a wonderful audience. 

"I can't believe it!" Mary Anne exclaims when I finish. "I didn't know Mr. Arden could be like that. He's always been so nice. At least to us. Should I quit too?" 

"No. You don't need to quit," 

"Maybe I should quit in protest. I bet other kids would too. Quite a few kids agreed with what you and Julie did. Well, we thought you were part of it at the time. You'd be surprised who sided with you. People like Mallory Pike and Shawna Riverson. Shawna asked Emily when the newspaper became a dictatorship, then called her Comrade Bernstein the rest of the day. That was sort of funny...but it was mean, too. If I wasn't going to New York, we could spend the weekend finding other kids to quit in protest. The _Gazette_'s already lost its layout artist and you, me, and Shawna practically run the entire Entertainment Page. If we - " 

"No, Mary Anne," I interrupt. "I don't want this to go any further. I'm not taking part in a newspaper revolution. There's already been enough problems for enough people. I'm done with the _Gazette_. Even if Mr. Arden begged, I wouldn't come back." 

Mary Anne looks disappointed, which makes me feel bad. It isn't often that Mary Anne gets excited about causing trouble. Lately, it isn't often that Mary Anne gets excited about _anything_. 

"Mary Anne, there's some stuff I want to talk about," I tell her. 

A guarded, suspicious look passes over Mary Anne's face. "Oh?" she replies. 

I think I've gotten fairly skilled at confrontation in the last two days. I decide to do like I did with Julie and Mom and ease into it slowly. 

"Remember that fight I had with Mallory?" I ask. 

Perhaps if I reveal a secret, she won't be so resistant to reveal hers. 

"I doubt I'll ever forget it," Mary Anne replies, appearing slightly relieved. 

"Well, I asked Mom about what Mallory said. Mom never had an affair with Mr. Pike," 

"I knew it!" Mary Anne exclaims. "I knew Mallory was a liar!" 

I hesitate, suddenly sorry I started this discussion. I'm not sure I'm ready for anyone else to know the truth. Not even my best friend. But I brought it up and I need to stop keeping so many secrets. 

"Mallory's not a liar. Not exactly," I tell Mary Anne. "She misunderstood Mrs. Pike and Mrs. DeWitt's conversation. My mom did have an affair, but not with Mr. Pike. It was with Mr. Prezzioso." 

Mary Anne gasps, her hands flying to cover her mouth. Her eyes nearly pop out of their sockets. At any other time, I would have laughed. I draw my knees up and wrap my arms around them. I give her the abridged version of Mom's and my conversations. Mary Anne doesn't need every detail, like my calling Mom a whore. 

"Wow," says Mary Anne. "They've been together a long time." 

I frown. I hadn't thought of that. The Prezzioso's were divorced sometime last winter. In February? March? That was almost a year ago. Have Mom and Mr. Prezzioso been sneaking around all that time? And how long were they seeing each other before Mrs. Pike told Mrs. Prezzioso? I should have thought of all this sooner. I feel myself growing angry again. Mom's deception runs deeper than I realized. Forgiving her will take a long time. 

"I'm really surprised, Stacey," Mary Anne says, sounding unsure of herself, like she doesn't know how much she should censor her opinion. "I didn't think your mom would do something like that. Not that it makes her a bad person! But I'm surprised. She's always been so levelheaded and sensible. You probably don't know it, but when things started getting bad with Sharon, your mom helped me with some of my problems. She has such good common sense. I guess everyone makes mistakes," says Mary Anne. She's being far more generous than I expected. But then, what did I expect her to say - _Gee, Stace, your mom's a slut. Sorry to hear it_? 

"I'm disappointed in Mr. Prezzioso," Mary Anne continues. "I've always liked him. Mrs. P was always pretty weird, but Mr. P seemed so nice and normal. Maybe he just got tired of Mrs. P making him wear ascots." 

I laugh and Mary Anne joins in. Then, at the same time, we stop, feeling guilty about finding humor in an affair. 

"I always liked him too," I tell Mary Anne, which is true. Not liking Mr. Prezzioso was never the issue. He's a nice man. Or I thought he was. I'm not so sure anymore. Does a nice man cheat on his wife? Does cheating make him a bad person, and if so, does it make Mom a bad person, too? I don't know how I can ever trust him. I don't know how he and Mom can ever trust each other. 

Suddenly, I don't want to talk about Mom and Mr. Prezzioso anymore. 

"Mary Anne...can we talk about something?" I ask her. 

The same guarded, suspicious look passes over her face. "I suppose so," she says, cautiously. 

I lay down on my side, propped up on my left elbow. Mary Anne won't look at me. She plays with a loose thread on her quilt. 

"Julie told me about Friday night. About Pete and Dorianne," I begin. "And about Brian Hall." 

"Julie has such a big mouth," Mary Anne says, scowling down at the quilt. 

"She stayed quiet almost a week. That must be some sort of record," I joke. Mary Anne doesn't even crack a smile. She doesn't even look up. I sigh. "Mary Anne, what happened? I'm your best friend. You can tell me. You didn't do anything with Brian Hall, did you?" 

"Of course not!" Mary Anne cries. 

A wave of relief sweeps over me. I sigh again. "I'm so glad," I reply. It's reassuring to know that at least Mary Anne didn't disappoint me. She wouldn't compromise her morals for anything, especially not revenge. 

"So, why did you leave with Brian?" I ask. 

Mary Anne's cheeks turn bright crimson. "Because...because I wanted to make Pete jealous! I was so _mad_ at him. How could he do _that_ with Dorianne Wallingford?" 

"You're still in love with Pete," I say, sort of sadly. Boys manage to ruin everything. They make us into people we aren't, people we don't want to be. I hate boys. 

"I'm not in love with Pete!" Mary Anne protests. "I just...I just...Dorianne Wallingford!" Mary Anne bursts into tears. "Dorianne Wallingford has the worst reputation in the entire senior class. Worse than Cokie Mason or Jacqui Grant or Darcy Redmond. Everyone knows about her abortion. Everyone knows she's desperate to regain her popularity. That's what Pete thinks of me. He hasn't dated anyone else since we broke up and the first person he starts up with is Dorianne Wallingford!" 

"Well, Mary Anne, it doesn't sound to me like they're exactly dating..." 

"That's even worse!" Mary Anne exclaims. "Obviously, I meant nothing to him. All he wants is a...a good time! What are people going to think of me? Everyone's going to think I'm easy, just like Dorianne." Mary Anne starts crying again. 

"Oh, Mary Anne," I sit up and wrap my arms around her. I don't exactly follow her logic. And I don't exactly believe she's not still hung up on Pete Black. Maybe she doesn't realize it. But none of that matters. Not right now. "Oh, Mary Anne, no one's going to think you're like Dorianne. Trust me, _no one's_ going to think that." 

Mary Anne pulls away and wipes her eyes with the sleeve of her blouse. "Really?" she says. "You don't think so?" 

I hand her a box of tissues. "Really. But Mary Anne...I don't understand why you thought leaving the party with Brian would help matters," 

Mary Anne doesn't reply. Maybe she doesn't remember her logic from that night. Or maybe she's still keeping secrets. Either way, I don't press her. I've had enough confessions for one day. Any others can wait awhile. 

When Mary Anne calms down, she walks me downstairs. I feel as if a weight has been lifted from my shoulders (I feel like that a lot these days. There are many weights resting upon my shoulders. I never run out of them) and I think Mary Anne feels the same. Anything else she has to confess, I suppose she will confess in her own time. I still have my own secrets to tell her. 

"You're sure you don't want me to quit the paper?" Mary Anne asks. 

"Don't," 

"All right," says Mary Anne with a sigh. "I'm ready for this weekend. It'll be nice to have a vacation from all this. Today's been full of surprises. So have people. I never suspected Julie to have a soft spot for Grace. Or for anyone. I mean, she's always trying to get you to eat candy, so she can see what happens. Remember that time she asked your mom to call her if you ever went into insulin shock?" Mary Anne giggles. 

I laugh. "Julie's so weird. But she's a good friend. Better than I thought. I hope Grace appreciates her sacrifice," 

Mary Anne's smile quickly turns down. 

"What?" 

"Oh, well..." Mary Anne says, hesitantly. "I wasn't going to say anything since you were already having so many problems." 

"What?" 

Mary Anne leans against the door frame and takes a deep breath. She exhales slowly. She's stalling. "Well..." she says. "Grace was really upset when I told her what happened," 

"Upset at Emily?" 

"At first. Then she heard about Julie and Emily getting suspended. We thought you were getting suspended too. Grace kind of became hysterical. Well, semi-hysterical at least. She locked herself in a bathroom stall. She said God's punishing her through her friends for being a bad person. She started ranting about sinning and repenting and none of it made much sense. Then she got on her knees and I thought she was praying, but then I heard her retching. She made herself sick, Stacey. It was scary. Then the bell rang and Erica crawled under the stall and forced Grace to come out. I saw her after seventh period and Grace acted like nothing was wrong. It was weird. Really, really weird," 

I stare at Mary Anne. I can't believe she planned to keep this from me. She must have thought she was protecting me, like I sometimes try to protect her. 

"Thanks for telling me, Mary Anne," I say. "Have a great time in New York!" I attempt to sound cheerful. Mary Anne knows it's fake. But then, she must feel the same way. We hug goodbye and for a moment, I hold her very tight. It feels like I'm losing the only person who understands me, even if it is for just a weekend. 

Instead of walking home, I walk to Locust Street. One side of the Blume's three-car garage is open. Grace's Corvette is parked inside. There are lights on downstairs and in Grace's bedroom. Mr. and Mrs. Blume work in New York City and won't be home for hours. I know Grace is alone. I knock on the front door, very loudly, and ring the bell twice. I wait for the sound of Grace's feet on the stairs. It never comes. I step onto the lawn and stare up at Grace's open window. I call her name several times. Then I wait. I call for her three more times. Finally, Grace appears at the window, but she doesn't so much as glance down at me. She shuts the window and pulls the curtains. 


	17. Chapter 17

I'm thankful when October leaves and November arrives new and unsullied. A fresh start. November holds so much promise that I vow to put the events of October behind me. I will move on toward being a better Stacey McGill, good friend and daughter, and maybe if I work hard enough, my problems won't follow into November. I think that with a brighter outlook and more effort on my part, my life can very well improve. 

Real life isn't like the movies where there's a big realization and everything changes overnight. Instead I take baby steps toward change and self-improvement, but I'm not perfect. I don't always manage to not be angry or resentful or secretive.

The second week in November, about two weeks after I quit the _Gazette_, I feel my life starting to improve. I am pleasantly surprised that November has not yet disappointed me. It is better than October and my life has taken on some semblance of normalcy. My friends and I are far from normal and perhaps we'll never be normal again. There's hurt feelings all around and those feelings may never fully heal. But we're still friends. That's all that matters.

Emily has mostly forgiven me. She understands that I wasn't part of Julie's plan. She doesn't blame me for her suspension. But I know she's still upset about my quitting the _Gazette_. I wasn't a fantastic writer, but I worked hard. I know Emily considers my quitting a personal betrayal. Not that I blame her. However, my betrayal stings much less than Julie's. There's a lingering chilliness between them. Julie pretends it's not there, but it's so obvious to everyone how could she possibly not be aware? I don't know what's been said between them. I don't exactly understand the dynamics of Emily and Julie's friendship. They just go on like nothing's wrong, as if they can pretend it away. Maybe this works for them. Maybe it doesn't.

At least it seems we're all on the right path, the path that's bringing us back together. We're eating at the same table in the cafeteria again. I consider that a step in the right direction. And last night, I thought of a way for us to take another step or two. We need some fun in our lives, a break from the gloom of recent events.

"It's almost your birthday," I tell Emily during lunch on Tuesday.

Emily's sitting across from me. She looks up from the soup she's been stirring for the last five minutes. She gives me a blank look and shrugs. I have to admit, Emily's not looking good these days. There are dark circle under her eyes, like she hasn't slept in weeks. Next to her, Grace doesn't look much better. She has the same dark circles, plus her face looks unnaturally pale and her once lovely red hair has lost its shine. They both look sort of...well, strung out.

"That's right," chirps Mary Anne. "The tenth. That's this Friday! What are your plans?"

Emily shrugs. "We're going to my uncle's in Stamford."

"Well, I had a great idea last night!" I say, enthusiastically in an attempt to breathe life into the conversation.

"Ohh, what?" asks Mary Anne.

"This weekend Mr. Prezzioso's going to a convention in Annapolis and my mom's going with him!"

"What kind?" Julie asks.

"What?" I reply, slightly confused.

"What kind of convention is it? Is it a sci-fi or comic book convention?"

"I don't know! It's some kind of banking convention. That really isn't important," I tell her. "Anyway, Mom's going to be away all weekend! So, I was thinking...Emily's birthday...no parents..." I smile across the table at Emily. Clearly, my idea is fabulous.

"No thanks," says Grace, not even looking up from her uneaten salad. "The last time I went to an unsupervised party, my date vomited all over me, remember?"

"It won't be that kind of party!" I protest.

"I don't want a party," Emily says.

Like a punctured balloon, my enthusiasm slowly deflates.

"I'll come to your party," says Julie.

"So will I," agrees Mary Anne. "As long as it's not out of control. And as long as Dad and Sharon won't find out. Maybe I can stay overnight," Mary Anne suggests, hopefully.

I feel my enthusiasm growing again. "Of course! You can stay Friday _and_ Saturday night! It will be so much fun! We'll make tons of food for the party. And we'll only make things you can eat, Emily. We'll decorate the entire house in your favorite colors. The day will be all about Emily Bernstein!"

"We can barbecue!" exclaims Julie.

"Barbecues are for spring and summer," points out Grace. "It's November."

"My family barbecues year round,"

"It's a nice suggestion, Julie, but I don't have a barbecue," I tell her.

"That's okay. Our barbecue's on wheels. Paul and I will just push it over,"

"Eight blocks? Never mind. Julie, if you can get it to my house, we'll barbecue," I say, hoping that for once Mr. and Mrs. Stern won't permit Julie to do whatever she pleases. I really don't need her setting my backyard on fire.

"Is there going to be alcohol?" asks Grace, starting to look a little more interested in my plan. "Because I won't come if there's going to be alcohol."

"I told you, it's not going to be that kind of party! It will be like the parties we always have, except with no parents. Whenever I have parties, Mom always stays up in her bedroom, right? So, it's not like she's really there. It'll be just like that. And we'll keep the party small and manageable. Only kids Emily wants to invite,"

"You know how parties are. Kids show up uninvited," says Grace, but I can tell she's softening.

"We can tell everyone Stacey's mom will be there," suggests Mary Anne. "No one will show up uninvited if they think a parent will be there."

I barely manage to hide my shock. When did Mary Anne become so deceitful? She looks so proud of herself that I don't say anything. Honestly, I'm a little proud of her too.

"I guess we should start a guest list then," says Grace with a sigh. She opens her binder and tears out a piece of blank paper. "Who do you want to invite, Emily?"

"I don't want a party," Emily replies, edgily. "I don't have time! I have too much studying to do. I can't waste my Saturday night on something as frivolous as a birthday party. There's just too much to do."

"You won't have to do anything. We'll prepare the food and set up. All you have to do is show up around six o' clock. Don't you deserve a break? All you ever do is study," I say, a bit irritably. Honestly, Emily could be a little more appreciative.

"Oh, all right!" huffs Emily. She rests her chin in her right palm and appears thoughtful. "Start the guest list, Grace. Erica, Lauren, Rick, the Shillaber twins, Kara Mauricio, Trevor Sandbourne...who else?"

"Claudia?" I suggest. "I doubt Erica will come without her."

Emily nods. "Of course. I like Claudia. Add Katie Shea and Jay Marsden, too."

"We don't have to invite Howie Johnson, do we?" Grace asks with a scowl.

I sigh and roll my eyes at Mary Anne.

"No," says Emily. "He's not a friend. Besides, he's dating Barbara Hirsch and she's been really nasty to me since Homecoming. I don't know why."

I cast a pointed look at Grace, but she ignores it. Barbara has been nasty to _all_ of us since Homecoming. She doesn't sit with Mary Anne and me in French class anymore (neither does Price Irving, thankfully). I used to consider Barbara a friend. I guess she decided I can't be her friend and Grace's friend. It's very unfair of her to want me to make that choice. Of course, I have learned that people are amazingly unfair.

"What about Pete Black?" Grace asks, glancing at Mary Anne.

"I don't care," Mary Anne says, quickly.

"Not Pete Black. He'll just make Mary Anne uncomfortable," says Emily.

"No, he won't!" Mary Anne protests. "Invite him! I don't care!"

"I don't think we should invite Pete Black," says Julie.

Emily and Grace add him to the list anyway. By the end of lunch, we have fifteen kids on the list. After arguing with Emily about sending out written invitations, we decide that Grace and I will phone everyone after school. We also make a list for decorations and food. We'll go shopping on Friday when I don't have to worry about Mom finding the supplies. When the bell rings, we're all very excited. Emily slightly less so than everyone else, but she's coming around.

I was right. This is just what we needed.

--------

Things are still tense at home. Some days are better than others. Mom doesn't nag anymore or constantly harp on my incurable lateness. And I'm working very hard to not be angry with her over all her lies. Sometimes when we're together, laughing and talking and it's just like old times, I completely forget about the affair. And sometimes when I look at her, the affair is all I think of. I can't always control the thoughts that run through my mind or the anger that builds inside me.

But I'm trying.

Mr. Prezzioso hasn't come around much the last two weeks. He's embarrassed and uncomfortable, as if things weren't awkward enough between us before. In a way, I feel bad for him and Mom, but then, I also think they deserve some embarrassment and discomfort. All these dual feelings are slowly tearing me up inside. I must work harder to resolve them.

In the evening, Mr. Prezzioso comes for dinner. It's the first time he and I have had dinner together since Mom admitted to the affair. Mr. Prezzioso and I manage to make very polite small talk all through dinner. Mom smiles throughout the meal, obviously pleased that we're both making such an effort. Of course, all through dinner I think about how Mr. Prezzioso is a liar and a cheat and a scoundrel. I wonder how long before he cheats on Mom. I wonder if maybe he's cheated on her already. Then I feel extremely guilty for thinking such thoughts, so I volunteer to clear the table and wash the dishes. I attempt to think only good thoughts about Mom and Mr. Prezzioso while washing the dishes. It's very difficult.

Maybe I should start going to church with Grace. I might learn something about forgiveness. Of course, church hasn't really helped Grace that much, so maybe that's not such a good idea after all.

After dinner, Mom, Mr. Prezzioso, and I watch the evening news in the living room. I lay on the floor with my chemistry homework while Mom and Mr. Prezzioso sit on opposite ends of the couch. I've noticed he doesn't touch her or sit near her when I'm around, like that changes anything. Whatever soothes his guilty conscience. It's not like I particularly enjoyed seeing him kiss my mother.

The doorbell rings just as the news turns into a rerun of _Who's The Boss?_ Perfect timing. Tony Danza gives me a headache. Julie and Grace are coming over to study for tomorrow's calculus exam. I close my chemistry book, then pull myself to my feet and answer the door. Julie's standing on the front porch in a bright yellow and hot pink ski parka and matching hat. She has a hot pink scarf wrapped all around her face.

"Did you walk over here?" I ask in way of a greeting. "I would have picked you up. What are you wearing?"

Julie steps into the house and unwraps the scarf from around her face. "This is my mother's. Dorianne still hasn't given my coat back! I think she's holding it as collateral or something. Hey! Did you guys know there was some guy parked across the street watching your house?"

Mom and Mr. Prezzioso's heads snap around.

"What?" Mom and I exclaim.

Mom, Mr. Prezzioso, and I rush to the window and peer through the curtains.

"Well, he's not there _now_," Julie tells us. "He was parked out there when I was walking down the street. It's really dark out, but I could tell he was staring at your house. It was pretty creepy. He was just sitting there, staring! So, I marched right up to his car and pounded on his window. I yelled, 'what are you doing, you creep?' Then he started the car and drove off."

Mom turns around, alarmed. "Julie, I don't think you should go up to strange men's cars like that," she says.

"What kind of car was it?" asks Mr. Prezzioso.

"I don't know. A brown one?"

"How old was he?" Mr. Prezzioso asks.

"I don't know. Twenties?"

I seriously hope Julie never witnesses a real crime. And for such a nosy, gossipy person she certainly is unobservant.

"Maybe it's a jealous ex-boyfriend, Mrs. McGill," Julie suggests. "Or maybe your ex-husband hired a private detective to follow you. My cousin's ex-husband does that all the time because she uses his child support checks to pay for her boyfriend's chin implant."

"I don't think that's it, Julie," Mom replies, wearily. I think Julie's quickly losing whatever respect she earned from Mom during the _Gazette_ photo scandal.

"He's probably not going to come back tonight," says Mr. Prezzioso.

"I hope not!" replies Mom. "I don't think we should go to that movie after all, Nick. I wouldn't feel comfortable leaving Stacey here alone. In fact, maybe I shouldn't even go away this weekend. Not if there's a stalker out there. He could be a burglar or a rapist or a serial killer."

I see where I get my knack for wild speculation.

"I think you're right," agrees Mr. Prezzioso, looking worried. "Maybe we should call the police. Maybe..." His voice trails off.

"I think you're making a big deal out of nothing," I tell them. No way are Mom and Mr. Prezzioso ruining Emily's party. There's too much riding on that one night of fun. "That guy probably wasn't even watching our house. He's probably someone's boyfriend who got freaked out by Julie. Julie's always jumping to conclusions."

"I am not!"

"Well...maybe," says Mom, exchanging a look with Mr. Prezzioso. "We'll see if he turns up again."

"Stacey can always stay with me for the weekend, Mrs. McGill," Julie tells Mom.

Why didn't I think of that? What an obvious solution. Mom would never know if I was actually here or not. The party could go on!

Mom nods, thoughtfully. "Hmm...maybe. Why don't you girls go study now? Nick, let's check to make sure all the windows are locked,"

Mom and Mr. Prezzioso disappear into the kitchen. Julie and I go upstairs to my room. I shut the door behind us.

"Do you think the party's ruined now?" I ask her.

Julie throws herself onto my bed. "No," she says. "Why would it be?"

Was she comatose through the entire conversation downstairs? "Uh, because Mom's thinking about not going to Annapolis,"

"She's going," replies Julie. "She's not going to miss a weekend alone with her boyfriend."

Julie has a point. I shouldn't worry so much. Mom will go to Annapolis and we'll have Emily's party and somehow the party will make things right again.

"You're right," I tell Julie.

Julie shrugs and opens my calculus book. I notice she didn't bring hers. She probably doesn't know where it is. Julie would do so much better in the class if she actually made an effort. I take out my calculus notebook and together, Julie and I work on the practice exam Miss Everhart gave us. We're halfway through problem three when Grace bursts into the room.

"Sorry, I'm late," Grace grunts. Her mood doesn't appear to have improved since school let out. "I'm having a terrible day. I don't even want to discuss it. Your mom said someone was lurking outside you house," Grace says, peeling off her coat and tossing it onto my armchair.

I shrug. "It was nothing," I reply, although I am starting to feel a little worried. And scared. Maybe Mom and I aren't safe in the house. For once, I might not mind Mr. Prezzioso staying overnight. As long as he slept in the guest room.

Our study session lasts an exhausting hour and a half. It frustrates me to no end how Grace and Julie always wait until the night before an exam to learn the material. I'm not a patient teacher either. When we finally come to problem fifteen (the last problem!), Grace and I are crabby and Julie's bored. It's a relief when Mom calls upstairs that Mrs. Stern is at the front door.

"Thanks for the help, Stace," Julie says, zipping up her ski parka. "See you both tomorrow."

"Bye Julie," Grace and I reply.

Once Julie's gone, Grace doesn't move to leave. She just keeps staring at her open calculus book. I kind of wish she _would_ leave. Something about her is making me uncomfortable.

"Are you okay?" I ask after awhile.

"Yes, I'm fine," she snaps not looking up from her book.

"Are you trying to memorize that page?"

"No," she replies, slamming the book closed.

"Is something wrong, Grace? You don't look good," And she doesn't. In fact, she looks even worse than she did at lunch.

"I'm under a lot of stress right now," she replies, snappishly. "And I'm not sleeping well. I'm not sleeping at all. I tried to buy some sleeping pills today but stupid Mr. Bernstein wouldn't sell them to me! He said my parents would have to buy them. When are my parents going to do that? They're never home! But I think that maybe Mr. Bernstein knew it was best that I _didn't_ sleep."

I stare at her. I have _no idea_ what she's going on about. She won't look at me either.

"Are you okay, Grace?" I ask again, which is such a dumb question because quite obviously something's wrong.

Grace wraps her arms around her head and cries, "Oh, Stacey, I sound so crazy! I'm not meaning what I say. No, I'm not saying what I mean! I know what I mean, but I can't say it. I can't tell you, Stacey. I _can't_. I told you that I'm very good at keeping secrets."

Grace bursts into tears. I've seen Grace cry plenty of times after lost tennis matches, mostly following her best John McEnroe impersonation. This isn't the same. It's so bizarre and awkward and...scary. Absolutely scary. I'm actually too afraid to comfort her.

I leave Grace kneeling by my bed, crying, and run downstairs. All the lights are out. Mom and Mr. Prezzioso have set two dining room chairs by the front window and are discreetly peering through the curtains. All the outside lights are out as well.

"Mom!" I hiss. Why am I hissing? Because it's dark?

Mom turns around and I motion for her to come into the dining room.

"What is it?" she asks.

"I think Grace is having some sort of breakdown! Or she's on drugs. Or maybe she _needs_ to be on drugs. I don't know, but she's acting nuts. She's up in my room crying and rambling about Mr. Bernstein not selling her sleeping pills,"

Mom looks incredibly confused, but follows me upstairs. Grace isn't in my room. I start to feel panicky until I hear the faucet in the bathroom turn on. I run back down the hall with Mom behind me. The bathroom door is shut. I try the knob but it's locked.

"Grace!" I yell, pounding on the door. "Open the door!"

"Grace!" Mom shouts. "I'm calling your parents!"

"You can't call them! It's after eight o'clock!" Grace shouts back, which makes absolutely no sense.

Mom gives me a puzzled look.

"See? She's talking like a nut!"

"I'm going to call Hal and Fay," Mom tells me. She turns and walks into her bedroom. I hear her pick up the phone and start dialing.

"Open the door, Grace!" I yell, pounding on the door again. "My mom's calling your parents!"

The faucet turns off and after a moment, Grace opens the door, looking perfectly composed. "No need," she says. "I'm fine now." She smiles.

Something's very wrong.


	18. Chapter 18

"Are you having a party?" 

I look up from the rug I'm beating. Mary Anne and I have thrown it over the lowest limb of the elm tree and I'm whacking it with a broom. It seemed like a great idea when Mary Anne suggested it, but has turned out to be one of those ideas that's better in theory than in practice.

Claire and Margo Pike (who are nine and eleven) are standing at the fence that separates my yard from theirs.

"Why do you ask?" I reply.

"We've been looking through your windows all day," Claire replies, simply.

Margo jabs her in the ribs.

"Well, we _have_," says Claire. "You've moved all the furniture out of your living room and you have a gazillion balloons floating all over your house!"

"It's rude to peek in people's windows, girls," I tell them. "It's an invasion of privacy. Hasn't my mother had that talk with you _several_ times?"

Margo shrugs, then points toward my house. "Mallory said that girl's an agent of evil sent up from the bowels of Hell,"

I turn and see that she's pointing at Grace, who's staring at us through the kitchen window.

"What are bowels, Stacey?" asks Claire.

"Did Mallory send you over here to spy on me?" I demand, completely ignoring Claire's question.

"No," says Margo.

"Yes," says Claire.

Margo jabs Claire in the ribs again.

"Tell Mallory that what's going on over here is none of her business,"

"Does your mother know you're having a party?" Margo asks, suspiciously.

A small part of me starts to panic. Do the Pikes know Mom's out of town? I assumed she wouldn't tell them. I know she told Mr. Walden next door and the Petermans on our other side. I got lucky there. Mr. Walden turns his hearing aid off at seven every night and the Petermans stay out until the bars close on Fridays and Saturdays. But if the Pikes know Mom's away...Mrs. Pike would gladly bust me, I'm sure.

"She went to buy more ice," I tell Margo.

"Oh. We haven't seen her all day," she replies.

"She's been at work," I snap. "And, really Margo, it's none of your business!" I yank the rug off the tree limb and drag it back into the house, probably getting it dirtier than it was in the first place. I should have listened to Grace and just vacuumed it.

"What did they want?" Grace asks, crabbily, when I come back into the house.

"Spying for Mallory,"

Grace rolls her eyes and continues mixing the macaroni salad she's been working on. I look into the bowl. The salad looks a little...odd. I think Grace overcooked the noodles. She assured me that macaroni was the one thing she could make. Apparently, all the Blumes ever eat is take out and t.v. dinners. But I don't say anything. I just let her continue chopping the olives and stirring them in.

After Tuesday night, I assumed things would be weird and tense between Grace and me. I wasn't exactly wrong, but I wasn't exactly right either. I feel sort of weird and tense around Grace, but she doesn't act as if she feels the same weirdness and tension. She acts like everything's normal, like she didn't almost have a mental collapse in my bedroom. And maybe that's what makes me feel weird and tense because that's _not normal_. Grace shouldn't be able to switch herself on and off like that.

I know there's something wrong. Something seriously, seriously wrong. By now I'm used to Grace's moods. Sometimes being her friend is like being on a roller coaster. I go up with her, I go down with her. Grace can be exhausting. But Tuesday night was more than a mood swing. Mom's convinced we overreacted. She never did reach the Blumes and then Grace left the house completely calm and composed. Mom says maybe it was just a mood swing after all. I wish I believed that too.

"Mary Anne, did you make the ranch dip yet?" I ask.

Mary Anne nods. "Yep. I made the spinach dip, too. When everyone starts arriving, I'll pour it into the bread bowl. I don't want it to get soggy,"

"Fantastic," I reply, checking the refrigerator for another head of lettuce. Everything's gone so smoothly. I can hardly believe it.

"Should you call your Mom, Stace?" Mary Anne asks me.

I check my watch. It's just after five. "Thanks for reminding me, Mary Anne!" I say.

I slide onto a stool and dial the number Mom left for the hotel. Even though our stalker hasn't shown up again, Mom's still paranoid. Especially since Mr. Walden said he'd noticed someone sitting across the street twice last week (but Mr. Walden's about a hundred and twelve years old, so I don't exactly put much stock in his observations). I convinced Mom to go to Annapolis as planned by promising to never stay in the house alone. Last night, I went with Mary Anne on an overnight sitting job at the Marshalls and today, I've been with either Mary Anne, Grace, or Julie every single second. (Julie even tried going into the bathroom with me. She claimed my stalker might be hiding behind the toilet). Mom, being Mom, has called _at least_ eighty-three times since yesterday afternoon. It was Mary Anne's idea to beat her to the punch before the party started.

"Hello, Mom?" I say into the receiver when she answers.

"Hi Stacey! I was just getting ready to call!"

"Because we haven't spoken in the last twenty minutes," I tease. Honestly, what will she do when I go away to college next year? "I just wanted to let you know that I'm going to be out tonight. We're going to Washington Mall for Emily's birthday. We're going to shop and have dinner and probably catch a movie. We'll be out late."

"That sounds fun, sweetheart. You won't be staying at the house alone tonight, right?"

"No, no. Of course not. Everyone's spending the night. Don't worry, Mom. There's safety in numbers,"

Mom chuckles. "All right then. Maybe I'll call around eleven. You shouldn't be out later than - " I hear Mr. Prezzioso's voice in the background and there's a sound like Mom covering the receiver. She hisses, "I am not!" then comes back on the line. "Sorry, Stacey. You shouldn't stay out later than eleven. Make sure all the doors and windows are locked. Call the police or the Petermans or the Pikes if there are any problems."

"I will, Mom. I'll talk to you later,"

"And Stacey? Have fun and be careful,"

I roll my eyes, but laugh. "Thanks, Mom," I hang up the phone. "Should I feel bad?" I ask Mary Anne and Grace because even after all Mom's lies, I feel bad about telling one to her. And it's such a little one. Hardly even worth mentioning. Right?

"Weeeell," says Mary Anne. "I lied to Dad and Sharon, too. But I'd rather have fun than feel guilty."

Grace shrugs. Her parents probably think she's upstairs in her bedroom.

The party's supposed to start at six. Mary Anne, Grace, and I have pretty much everything in order by five-forty when the doorbell rings.

"We know we're early!" says Erica when I answer the door.

"That's okay! You can help set out the food,"

Erica and Claudia come in and I take their coats and hang them in the hallway closet. (I promised Julie that no coats would be left unattended with Pete Black around).

"You look great, Claud," I tell her.

Claudia's wearing a pair of extremely holey jeans over a pair of yellow floral print leggings. Then she has on a green tank top over a yellow long sleeved shirt. Her hair is pulled into six ponytails and from her ears dangle earrings shaped like giraffes. She has five different colored beaded necklaces around her neck. Claudia never changes. I'm pretty sure she'll always be the same funky girl I met my first day at SMS.

Erica (looking rather dull next to Claudia in jeans and a sweatshirt) says to me, "We drove by Julie and Paul Stern pushing a barbecue down your street."

In the dining room, Grace erupts in hysterical laughter.

"Oh, yeah...didn't I tell you this was a barbecue?"

"We assumed you actually had a barbecue here," replies Claudia.

"Um...no. Want a soda?"

"We can get it," Claudia tells me. "You probably want to change."

I look down at my outfit and gasp. I'm still wearing an old pair of purple polka dot leggings and a gray t-shirt. I've been cleaning in them all afternoon. I don't even want to think about the embarrassment I'd feel if anyone else saw me like this! I run upstairs to change. My party outfit is already laid out on the bed. Mary Anne and I chose our outfits very carefully this morning. Mary Anne opted for a casual look - a pale pink sweater with a black and white plaid skirt. However, as hostess I feel I need to appear a bit more sophisticated. After much deliberation, Mary Anne and I decided on my black knee-high boots, a short, but loose black skirt, and a tunic I stole from Mom's closet. The tunic is a dark teal blue with a fitted bodice and low neckline. The sleeves are long and loose. I complete the outfit with a pair of dangly black bead earrings and three black beaded bracelets. I must say, I look sensational. Like a true hostess.

When I go downstairs again, Emily's standing in the living room with Lauren Hoffman and Katie Shea. Despite all her protests and reservations, Emily actually looks excited. She has on the peach-colored dress Julie wore to Homecoming with a string of pearls around her neck. She also has on pearl earrings and pearl barrettes in her light brown hair. She's dressier than most of the other guests, but as the birthday girl, I suppose that's her right.

"Happy birthday, Emily!" I say, giving her a hug.

"Thanks! The house looks great, Stacey. You didn't have to do all this," she replies, smiling.

"You're worth it. Come on, let me show you what we have in the kitchen," I grab Emily's hand and pull her toward the kitchen. Mary Anne and Erica are still in there, setting out liters of soda and chopping tomatoes and onions for the hamburgers. Through the kitchen window, I see Julie, Grace, and Paul standing on the patio around the barbecue.

"See, Emily," I say to her as I pull a platter of hamburger patties and hot dogs out of the refrigerator, "we only made food you can eat. No pork and nothing that combines meat and dairy. And these hot dogs are kosher." I smile at Emily. I hope she realizes that all this effort is my way of making up with her.

Emily smiles back. "Thanks, Stacey. That's really sweet,"

"I'll go take these out of Julie," I tell her, carrying the platter toward the back door.

The first thing I hear when I step onto the patio is Julie saying, "Hand me the lighter fluid, Paul."

I turn right back around and walk into the house. I cannot watch. I just know Julie and Paul are going to set my house on fire. I shove the platter into Emily's arms. "Take those out to Julie, please," I tell her, then turn my head away from the window in order to miss the towering inferno that will no doubt engulf my home at any moment.

Surprisingly, there is none.

When I turn back to the window, Julie and Paul are standing beside the barbecue, wrestling over a spatula. I heave a sigh of relief. Maybe this won't end in tragedy after all. Maybe for once Julie's telling the truth and she really does know what she's doing. I go back out onto the patio and join Julie, Paul, Grace, and Emily around the barbecue.

"I can't believe your parents let you push that all the way over here," I say to Julie. "You're so lucky, Julie. Your parents let you do whatever you want."

Paul looks at me surprised. "That's not true," he protests. "We have rules."

Julie flips a burger and nods. "No drinking, no smoking, no drugs, no sex. Everything else is negotiable."

"There's a lot of everything else," I reply.

Julie shrugs. It's irritating when people don't realize how lucky they are.

"Where does your mother keep her alcohol?" Grace asks, out of absolutely nowhere.

"Excuse me?" I reply.

"I think we should hide it,"

"Gee, Grace, I don't think our friends will go rifling through the house in search of booze,"

Grace sighs, heavily. "I'm not getting vomited on again," she says.

I sigh, too, because she's being ridiculous. Our friends _aren't_ going to steal my mother's alcohol. Grace can be so strange and paranoid. However, if it makes her happy... "In the pantry, I think there's a half bottle of rum Mom uses for holiday baking. There's probably a bottle or two of wine somewhere."

Grace raises her eyebrows. "That's all?" she asks.

I'm growing rather impatient with her. "Yes, Grace. That's all. It's not like my mom's running a liquor store out of our kitchen," I snap.

Grace makes this kind of "Hmm" sound in her throat, then turns on her heels and marches back into the house. Emily follows her, saying she needs to greet the other guests. I roll my eyes at Julie and Paul.

"She's weird," says Paul.

"Did you notice my outfit, Stacey?" Julie asks, switching the subject so quickly I actually wonder how her outfit is connected to Grace. "I made a point to dress up," Julie tells me, gesturing to her gray slacks and long-sleeved ice blue shirt with glitter scattered across the front. "I even opted for the more formal loose ponytail."

"Yeah, you look great, Julie," I tell her, distractedly. "I guess I should go inside and greet everyone too. Let me know when the burgers and hot dogs are done. Please don't set anything on fire."

"We won't," replies Julie, sounding rather offended.

Maybe that was rude of me, but I have a right to be concerned. After all, it's Julie Stern with lighter fluid and a pit of fire. Who wouldn't be worried? Plus, having Paul around is like having a second Julie. In fact, if you put a long blonde wig on Paul, he'd _look_ just like Julie. No one needs that kind of scare lingering on their conscience. My concerns are totally justified. I give Julie and Paul one more backward glance, then step into the house. Everyone's arrived by now and are milling around the living room and dining room, chatting and eating the chips and dip. A fun, but calm party. Emily's standing near the front door in a cluster with Mary Anne, Katie, and the Shillaber twins. She looks more relaxed than I've seen her in a long time. I smile and give myself an imaginary pat on the back.


	19. Chapter 19

Somehow Julie and Paul manage not to burn anything or anyone. They don't even burn the burgers or hot dogs. I'm pretty sure half the party heaves a collective sigh of relief. Everyone fills their plates and spreads out around the dining room and living room. Mary Anne, Grace, and I sit together on the stairs. Grace's mood has shifted (there's that on and off switch again) and we have a fun time, shouting back and forth to the big group in the living room. There's another group in the dining room that includes Julie, Paul, Pete, and Lauren, and I'm really thankful to not be apart of it because I keep hearing "ew!" and "nasty!" Sometimes it's hard to believe that these people are almost adults.

When everyone's finished eating, Mary Anne and Erica collect all the trash (no one can accuse me of being an irresponsible thrower of unsupervised parties) and I turn on the stereo. I put on Skyllo's CD for his new band, Skeeball. I love them, despite their less than glowing reviews. Before returning to the kitchen, I leave Claudia in charge of the music. I don't need Emily or Julie bringing the party to a grinding halt with their random musical selections. They have the musical taste of a middle aged woman.

I flip on the patio lights and take a bag of trash out to the trash can. In the darkness beyond the patio, I can barely make out Mallory's form sitting on the Pike's picnic table. The flicker of her lit cigarette gives her away. I know she's watching me, but I turn my face away and pretend not to see. Her eyes burn into my back, but I don't need her attempting to guilt me into forgiving her.

Inside the house, most everyone's dancing in the living room. Skeeball's still on the stereo and it's a bouncy pop song. A lot of the girls are singing along while dancing. I dance over to Mary Anne and Emily and join in. We dance all through the Skeeball CD and then halfway through an old Tin Can Voices CD before I decide to stop for some water. Suddenly the living room seems very hot and I'm all sweaty. I finish out the song with Jay Marsden, then excuse myself. I get a glass of water in the kitchen, then on my way back to the living room somehow get stuck in a ten minute conversation about _General Hospital_ with Grace and Katie. I only watch during the summer and school vacations (it's a mostly secret guilty, guilty pleasure) but I don't think Grace or Katie have missed an episode _ever_. Finally, I make it back to the living room, but before I resume dancing, scan the room, grinning. The party is a fabulous success. Emily still looks happy and relaxed dancing in a group with Mary Anne, Erica, and Lauren. _Everyone_ looks happy and relaxed. There's Julie dancing with Trevor Sandbourne, the Shillaber twins dancing together, Mari Drabek and Paul, Cokie Mason dancing on my mother's favorite coffee table, Rick and -

Wait. Cokie Mason? Dancing on my mother's favorite coffee table? My head snaps back around. Yes, there's Cokie in a lacy fuchsia miniskirt, dancing her heart out over by the window. I grab Grace's arm as she walks by.

"Did you invite Cokie Mason?" I demand.

"No," Grace scoffs.

"Then why is she here?" I ask.

I look around the room and realize that it's a lot more crowded. There's a group of kids I barely recognize dancing in my foyer and several others bumping into my invited guests in the living room.

"Where did all these kids come from?" I cry, tightening my grip on Grace's arm.

"I don't know! I told you kids would crash your party!"

"No one knew Mom wouldn't be here! Who told? Julie and her big mouth!"

"What about my big mouth?" asks Julie, suddenly popping up beside me.

"Did you tell anyone my mom would be out of town?"

She shakes her head. "No! Only Paul. He didn't tell either!"

"How did all these kids find out?" I demand.

"I don't know. By phone?" Julie replies. "I'll find out!"

I watch Julie disappear into the growing crowd of kids dancing in the living room. I feel my perfect party slowly crumbling all around me. Maybe it's not so bad. Maybe a few more - or twenty - kids doesn't matter. I stand on my toes and attempt to locate Emily and Mary Anne in the crowd. Impossible. There's just too many people.

"Maybe it's not so bad," I say to Grace, even though I don't believe it for a second.

"Not so bad?" exclaims Grace. "This is a disaster!"

"Not yet," I reply.

"Why not just tell everyone to go home?" suggests Grace.

It seems like a rather stupidly optimistic idea, but it's not like we have a lot of options. Grace and I elbow our way to the stereo, then Grace helps me up onto the bookcase. I can see everyone and they can see me. I feel very authoritative. I signal to Grace and she shuts off the stereo.

I cup my hands around my mouth and shout, "Excuse me! Excuse me!" Everyone turns to look at me. I continue, "This is a private birthday party! Will all those not formally invited to Emily Bernstein's birthday, please leave immediately! Or...or I'll call the cops!"

A beer can hits me in the forehead. Several people laugh, then someone shoves Grace out of the way and turns the stereo back on. I climb down from the bookcase and Grace and I fight our way back through the crowd and out of the living room. Halfway through the crush of people, Emily links arms with me and allows me to pull her from the crowd. The three of us gather at the bottom of the stairs.

"Where's Mary Anne?" I ask.

"I lost her awhile ago," replies Emily.

"Who brought beer?" demands Grace. "I knew this would happen. That's all we need. No parents and a bunch of drunk teenagers. Any minute someone's going to start throwing up and it will probably be on me."

"Chill out, Grace," I snap, even though the thought of people throwing up in my house turns my stomach. Will I have to clean it up? I shake the thought from my mind. I'm getting ahead of myself with worries. "How are we going to get these people out of my house?"

Emily and Grace stare at me, blankly.

"Okay, we know where all these people came from," says Julie, materializing out of nowhere with Paul.

I turn toward her. "That's a start...what are you wearing?"

Over her shirt, Julie has on an enormous white cotton bra. It reminds me of the ones my grandmother wears.

"Cokie Mason's bra," Julie replies, simply.

"Cokie Mason's _bra_?"

"She's totally drunk! Paul and I asked if we could have it and she gave it to us!"

"Cokie Mason's drunk?" I cry. "How can she already be drunk? She just got here!"

"I think she was drunk before she came," says Julie. "She came from Austin Bentley's party. That's where all these people came from. His neighbor broke up the party, so everyone moved over here."

"How did they know your mom's gone, Stacey?" Emily asks.

"I guess someone here called someone at Austin's party. Whenever I find out who it was, I'll kill them. Seriously. I'll kill them," I glance around the room, fighting back tears. Everything was so perfect. Now it's just a giant mess again. I take a deep breath and attempt to reel in the fast approaching tears. It is not the time for falling apart. I must take control of the situation. I release the breath. "Okay," I say in a loud, clear voice. "We need to get control of the situation. There's two problems here. One is all the uninvited guests. The other is the alcohol. It's only going to make the situation worse. If we get rid of one we'll get the other. So...uh..."

"You want us to take away people's beer?" asks Paul.

"Yes! Excellent idea, Paul," I reply. I really hadn't thought of a solution.

"Are you kidding?" laughs Grace. "That's a really dumb idea, Stacey. We should just call the cops."

"So they can call my mom in Annapolis?" I snap. "I still have this under control. Just do as I say! I'm going to find Mary Anne." I whirl around and march off before anyone can argue. There's still a chance the night won't be a complete disaster. I still have a loose grasp on the situation. It's not totally out of my control.

I walk through all the downstairs rooms calling for Mary Anne. Then I step onto the patio and call for her. I don't see Mallory. I suppose she's given up and gone back into her own house. I hope she isn't phoning the cops out of spite. Back inside, I continue searching for Mary Anne. She wouldn't leave without a word. I head upstairs. No one's supposed to go up there. But then, no one's really obeying any of the other rules. And the rule doesn't really apply to Mary Anne anyway.

The upstairs is quiet. I check the bathroom, but it's empty. Next I head for my bedroom. I wouldn't blame Mary Anne if she needed a break from the party. The door's closed, but I don't knock. I just barrel right into the room.

I wish I hadn't.

Mary Anne and Pete Black are on my bed. _On my bed._ Mary Anne's underneath Pete with her sweater pulled up under her armpits. Pete's fumbling with her bra hook while sucking on her neck. And they're doing this _on m bed_.

"What are you doing?" I shriek.

Mary Anne sits up bolt right. "Stacey!" she cries, yanking down her sweater.

"I...I..." My mind and mouth refuse to form the same words. There's no way I can adequately express my horror and disappointment and anger. No words seem strong enough. It seems like such a betrayal that after everything Mary Anne would sneak up to my bedroom with Pete Black. As if there weren't enough problems tonight.

"Stacey, I can explain - " starts Mary Anne, tearing up. That's not going to work this time.

"I don't want an explanation now," I snap. "You two probably aren't aware, but there's a large group of slightly drunk party crashers downstairs. Pete, if you could please get off of Mary Anne and help me, it'd be appreciated."

I storm back downstairs, silently fuming. I'm so sick of Mary Anne and Pete. I thought it was over. Mary Anne insists it is. She's supposed to be moving on. After Dorianne Wallingford, I assumed she was cured of her Pete Black fixation. I bought all her tears and believed all her protests. It's just an endless cycle. I'm so sick of it.

Downstairs, Grace and Darcy Redmond are arguing by the stereo. Grace keeps pushing the Off button and Darcy keeps pushing the On. Their argument looks pretty heated, but I can't hear a word over all the other noise. On my way to the dining room, I pass Claudia and Erica dancing together, each with a beer in her hand. They both look at me, guiltily. I glare and continue walking. The dining room is mostly empty, except for a pair of black and white sneakers and a pair of black heeled boots sticking out from under the table. A cold sense of dread washes over me. I don't even want to look.

"Julie...what are you doing under the table?" I ask in a flat, strained voice.

There's a pause. "Nothing," she replies. "Uh...don't come down here!"

I immediately drop to my knees. Julie and Paul are laying on the carpet with wet dishrags and a bottle of Fantastique carpet cleaner. They're furiously rubbing at a huge brown stain on the carpet.

"It's coming up," says Julie, quickly.

Before I can ask any questions, there's a huge crash in the living room. My stomach drops to my knees. I jump up and charge toward the living room, but before I reach the door the Shillaber twins step in my way.

"We're leaving," says one. (If they stopped dressing alike maybe I could tell them apart).

"You can't leave!" I protest.

"Sorry, Stacey, this is out of control,"

"You can't leave! I need you. Here," I grab one of the Shillabers by the shoulders and shove her back into the dining room. I position her in front of Mom's china cabinet. "Stay here. Protect the china."

I leave the Shillaber twins in front of the china cabinet and walk into the living room. I scan the room for whatever fell. I push my way through the crush of people until I come to the window where Emily and Grace are crouched around the remains of Mom's favorite coffee table.

"What happened?" I exclaim.

"Apparently, this wasn't built to hold the weight of six people," Emily replies, straightening up. She's holding a coffee table leg in her right hand.

This is no longer in my control.

"Meeting in the dining room," I tell them.

We push our way back out of the living room. We pass Pete Black fighting with Austin Bentley and a group of their friends. Mary Anne's nowhere in sight. In the dining room, the Shillaber twins are still standing awkwardly in front of the china cabinet. Julie and Paul are still under the table. Emily, Grace, and I crawl under there with them.

"We have to get these people out of my house,"

"Let's call the cops," suggests Grace.

"No! No cops. They'll call my mom," I reply. There's still a chance Mom will never find out about this. "We need an adult though. Julie, your parents are cool. Let's call them."

Julie frowns. "My parents went to Middleton. They won't be back until tomorrow."

I close my eyes tight for a second, so I won't start crying. There's a panicky feeling rising in my chest. I turn to Grace and look at her hopefully. "Grace?"

"Cocktail party in Mercer," she replies, sadly.

My last hope dashed. We can't call the Bernsteins or Mr. Spier. I'd almost rather Mom come home to a wrecked house. I rack my brain for other options and suddenly the solution is painfully clear. I groan, inwardly. Sometimes in life, we must do things we don't want to because there's simply no other choice.

I take a deep breath. "Okay, Julie and Paul, keep cleaning the carpet. Emily, go into the living room and keep an eye on things. Grace, you're coming with me,"

"Where are we going?"

"To the Pikes,"

"Are you joking?" Grace asks.

"Do you have a better plan?" I snap, rising to my feet.

Grace doesn't answer, but follows me out of the dining room and kitchen. Grace and I aren't wearing coats, but I hardly notice the chilly night air as we traipse across my yard and the Pikes'. Grace is only wearing a thin three-quarter sleeve sweater. She wraps her arms around herself while we walk. On the Pike's patio, I turn back to look at my house. It's lit up brightly in the dark night. The music's barely audible on the patio. It looks like a house that should be full of fun right now. I realize I'm shaking. I don't think about what I should say to the Pikes. As of now, I'm feeling so panicked and out of control that anything might pour from my mouth.

I don't knock on the back door. I just open it and storm right into the house. There really isn't time for good manners. My entire house could be destroyed in the time it takes to exchange pleasantries. There are no Pikes in the kitchen. I lead Grace through the house toward the living room, where I hear voices and the sound of the t.v. blaring. Mr. Pike and Margo are sitting on the couch/ Claire's laying on the floor drawing.

"Mr. Pike!" I exclaim.

The Pikes all jump and turn around. Mr. Pike leaps to his feet.

"Stacey! What's wrong?"

"Mr. Pike, you have to come to my house! There are all these people there. You have to make them leave!" I can hear the panic straining my voice.

Mr. Pike nods and strides quickly toward the staircase. He shouts up the stairs, "Diane! Come down here!"

In a matter of seconds, Mrs. Pike, Mallory, and Nicky all appear at the top of the stairs. They all look confused. Mrs. Pike practically runs down the stairs.

"What's wrong?" she asks. "Stacey?"

I take a deep breath. "Mrs. Pike, we were having a birthday party for Emily Bernstein and all these other people showed up. They're destroying my house! You have to make them leave!" Then I burst into tears, right there in the middle of the Pikes' living room, in front of Mrs. Pike and Mallory and half the Pike family.

"Where's your mother?" asks Mrs. Pike.

I hesitate a moment and wipe my eyes. "Annapolis," I admit.

Mrs. Pike nods. "Kids, stay here with Mallory. Come on, Stacey,"

Mr. Pike already has his jacket on. As we pass through the kitchen, Mrs. Pike grabs a cardigan sweater off the back of a chair. Mr. Pike leads the way across the yard. Mrs. Pike and I walk behind him with Grace trailing behind us. She hasn't said a word. Halfway across their yard, Mrs. Pike slips her arm around my shoulders. It's surprising and unexpected and exactly the slight gesture of comfort I need.

Grace and I stay in the kitchen while Mr. and Mrs. Pike head into the living room. The music stops abruptly. Grace and I lean against the counter, listening to Mr. Pike's voice boom in the next room. The front door opens and we can actually hear kids shoving out the door. I rest my head on Grace's shoulder and sigh. I don't feel quite so panicky now. I'm thankful Grace refrains from saying, "I told you so," although I can sense she's thinking it. I appreciate her restraint.

After a few minutes, Grace and I walk into the living room. Mr. Pike and Pete Black are examining Mom's coffee table. Mary Anne, Emily, Julie, Paul, Erica, Claudia, and Lauren Hoffman are just standing in the middle of the messy living room looking overwhelmed. Claudia, in fact, looks a little wobbly. I can't say I feel sorry for her.

Mrs. Pike comes down the stairs and says, "The upstairs doesn't look too bad."

"I wish I could say the same for this," Mr. Pike says, holding up a piece of split wood. "I think Maureen's going to have to buy a new coffee table."

"Maybe we can buy a new one tomorrow," suggests Julie.

I realize that Julie's still wearing Cokie Mason's bra. I notice it at the same time as Mr. and Mrs. Pike. The give her a strange look, although I can't imagine they've not seen anything more bizarre in their own home.

Mrs. Pike shakes her head. "Maureen and I bought it in New Haven,"

"If we leave now, we can drive there and back before Mrs. McGill comes home," says Paul.

"Yes!" agrees Julie.

"I think everyone should focus on cleaning the house," replies Mrs. Pike. "Stacey, go get some trash bags. You and you," she points to Pete and Paul, "take the coffee table out to the trash can. Mary Anne, Emily, you, and you," she points to Erica and Lauren, "start moving the furniture back. Claudia, I think you need to sit down."

When I return with the trash bags, Mrs. Pike has removed her cardigan and is standing with her hands on her hips, directing the repositioning of the couch. I pass out trash bags to Grace and Julie, then open my own and begin tossing in empty cups and half-eaten pieces of cake. Emily didn't even get to blow out her candles. The party crashers cut into the cake before she had the chance.

"Are you going to tell my mom, Mrs. Pike?" I ask her.

Mrs. Pike knits her eyebrows together. "Gee, Stacey, I think she's going to know,"

"Especially when she sees the carpet in the dining room," says Julie. "You might want to take a look at that, Mrs. Pike."

Mrs. Pike puts her palm to her forehead and groans.

"Let me help you with that, Stacey," says Mary Anne, attempting to hold open my bag while I dump in a stack of plates.

I snatch it away. "I don't need your help, Mary Anne," I snap.

Mary Anne bites her bottom lip and looks hurt. I'm not falling for that routine. Not again.

"Mary Anne, you're supposed to be helping Mr. Pike and Emily move the television set," says Mrs. Pike. She points to Grace and Julie, "Okay, you and you, go into the den and clean up in there."

We're all so grateful for some adult interference that not even Grace looks put out at being bossed around by Mallory Pike's mother. She and Julie nod and head toward the den.

"What's on that picture?" asks Mrs. Pike, pointing to the wall behind the television set. "Stacey, go get a wet - "

Mrs. Pike's interrupted by a blood curdling scream from the den. It's followed by a voice so high and shrill that I can't even guess if it's coming from Grace or Julie.

"Mrs. Pike! Get in here!"


	20. Chapter 20

Mr. and Mrs. Pike and I are the first to reach the den. As soon as we enter, we're hit with the strong stench of vomit. My stomach churns and I clutch it, praying I won't double over and vomit myself. Grace and Julie stand behind the desk. Grace is screaming, screaming like I've never heard anyone scream before. She chills my blood and I wish she'd just _stop_. I'm fairly sure her vocal chords will burst at any moment. Julie's silent when we rush into the room. She looks at us blankly, then glances down at her feet, like she doesn't know how to explain whatever it is that's wrong. 

The Pikes and I round the desk and gasp a single strong, collective gasp. I may scream. I'm not sure. If I do, it's drowned out by Grace. 

Laying face down on the carpet of my den in her lacy fuchsia skirt is Cokie Mason. Her arms and legs are at odd angles and her reddish-brown hair completely hides her face. She isn't moving. 

"Oh my God..." says Mrs. Pike in a whisper of a voice. She drops to her knees beside Cokie and rests a hand on Cokie's shoulder. Mrs. Pike's hand shakes as she turns Cokie over onto her back and pushes the hair away from Cokie's face. Cokie's skin has a strange bluish hue. Mrs. Pike's face is partially turned away from me, but I catch on it a peculiar expression, sort of lost and hopeless. I realize that my heart is racing. So far, everything has been in Mrs. Pike's control. I surrendered my party and my home to her and trusted her to hold everything together. If she starts to panic now... 

Mrs. Pike doesn't fail me. 

"John, call an ambulance," she orders, then grabs Cokie's wrist and feels around for a pulse. "Has she been drinking?" Mrs. Pike asks, not glancing up. 

"I didn't see her drinking," I reply. 

"I did," says a voice behind me. It might be Erica. It might be Emily. It doesn't really matter. 

"She was really drunk when Paul and I talked to her," Julie says. 

Mrs. Pike nods and drops Cokie's wrist. She turns Cokie onto her side and finally looks up at me. "Who is she?" Mrs. Pike asks. 

"Cokie Mason," I reply, thinking how offended Cokie would be if she were conscious. 

"Her breathing's very shallow," Mrs. Pike tells me. "I think it's alcohol poisoning." 

I don't know what that is. But anything that includes the word "poisoning" can't be good. I grip the side of the desk and close my eyes tight. I think I really might throw up now. 

"Is Cokie going to die?" chokes Mary Anne. She's standing by the door with tears streaking her cheeks. Pete has his arm around her shoulders. I never thought I'd see Mary Anne cry over Cokie Mason. I must be a very selfish person because all I think is, _why me? Why must Cokie Mason die in my house?_

I am a horrible, horrible person. 

"The ambulance is on its way," announces Mr. Pike, striding back into the den. 

Mrs. Pike nods, even though Mr. Pike can't see her. She looks up at Julie. "What's your name?" she demands. 

Julie looks alarmed. "J-Julie Stern," she squeaks. 

"Okay, Julie, I need you to come down here and hold onto Cokie. She has to stay on her side. If she vomits again, we don't want her choking," 

Julie shakes her head and takes a step backward. "I'm not touching her," she replies. 

"I'll do it," says Grace dropping to her knees beside Mrs. Pike. I didn't notice when Grace stopped screaming. 

"Keep her on her side," instructs Mrs. Pike. "And make sure she keeps breathing." Mrs. Pike stands and walks back around the desk. I follow because I can't bear to stare at a half-dead Cokie Mason anymore. 

"You and you," says Mrs. Pike, grabbing Erica and Paul by the elbows, "go out to the curb and wait for the ambulance. It should be here any second. John, I think you should call Cokie Mason's parents. They'll want to meet the ambulance at the hospital." 

In the distance, we hear the wail of the ambulance sirens. Mr. Pike heads toward the kitchen and Mrs. Pike heads toward the front door. Me, my head is spinning. I suspect I might actually _be_ spinning, around and around in an endless circle. I don't know how Mrs. Pike can remain so calm. My skin is crawling. My head is spinning and my skin is crawling. This is a disaster. I'm a disaster. And Cokie Mason may die right here in my den. I'm not sure I could ever convince myself that it's not my fault. 

"I can't be here," Lauren Hoffman suddenly announces in a high, panicked voice. "This is...this is...I have to go home. Someone needs to take me home." 

"I'm sorry, Stacey, I have to leave too," Emily says, looking as panicked as Lauren sounds. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry." 

"I...I understand," I reply, softly, but neither Lauren or Emily hear me. They're already out of the room. I hear the front door slam behind them. 

This all happens in less than ten minutes. It feels much, much longer. 

When the ambulance arrives, Mrs. Pike shepherds us into the living room. Two paramedics come, a man and a woman. They go straight to Cokie and after a few seconds, Mrs. Pike comes out of the den and calls for me. I walk into the den and the male paramedic asks me some questions, like what time did Cokie arrive ("Eight or eight-thirty"), how much did she drink ("I don't know"), and does she take any medications ("I don't know"). Then Mrs. Pike sends me back into the living room. Everyone's just sitting around. Mary Anne starts crying again and Erica joins in. Claudia looks on the verge of tears. I feel like crying too. But not for Cokie Mason. I must truly be a selfish person because I have no tears for Cokie. I have tears only for myself. 

Pete still has his arm around Mary Anne's shoulders, but isn't saying anything to her. It looks very awkward. Julie and Paul are smushed together in the armchair. Paul's staring into the unlit fireplace. Julie's flipping through the TV Guide. For a sickening moment, I think she's actually going to turn on the t.v. 

I start wringing my hands. I refuse to turn my head toward the den. I can't hear what's going on in there. I don't want to know. The silence in the living room is driving me crazy though, and finally I ask, "What's alcohol poisoning?" 

"It's when your blood alcohol level rises too high," replies Grace in a flat, hollow voice, startling me. I didn't notice her standing by the front door. "That's why Cokie threw up," Grace explains in the same hollow voice. "Her body didn't want to absorb any more alcohol. When your blood alcohol level rises too high, your brain starts to shut down. You stop breathing and your heart stops and you die." 

Mary Anne starts wailing. 

"Oh," is all I can say. 

"My uncle died from alcohol poisoning," says Grace. 

"Oh. I didn't know that," 

Grace sighs and looks away. "It doesn't matter," she says and I wonder if perhaps she's already resigned to the thought of Cokie's death. 

The paramedics wheel Cokie out into the foyer on a stretcher. She's still unconscious. She looks dead. I'm angry at myself because I can't stop thinking of that word. Dead, dead, dead. It seems wrong, like I'm willing Cokie to die. We watch the paramedics push Cokie down the driveway and lift her into the back of the ambulance. I wonder if I'll ever see her again. 

"Wait!" someone shrieks, shoving past me in the doorway. It's Grace, sprinting across the front lawn, a streak of long, slender legs and red hair. "Wait! I'm coming too!" she shouts and leaps into the back of the ambulance. The doors close behind her. We watch the ambulance drive away. 

I turn to Mrs. Pike and ask, "What now?" because so far Mrs. Pike has had an answer for everything. 

Mrs. Pike doesn't hesitate. She ushers us back inside and immediately begins barking orders. In a few seconds, the clean up operation has resumed, as if it had never been interrupted. Mrs. Pike doesn't give me an assignment, so I stand next to the couch while she has a whispered conversation with Mr. Pike in the dining room. Finally, she motions for me to join them. 

"Stacey, Mr. Pike is going to stay here," she tells me, "while you and I go to hospital." 

"The hospital!" I cry. "Mrs. Pike, I don't want to go to the hospital. This wasn't my fault!" 

"This isn't a punishment, Stacey. I realize it wasn't your fault. But it still happened at your party, in your home. It's time to behave like an adult," Mrs. Pike says this in a firm, but not unkind voice. I know there's no use arguing. 

"All right, Mrs. Pike. I'll get my coat and purse," 

Mrs. Pike hesitates. "Well...before we leave we need to call your mother," 

My mother! The room starts spinning again. Somehow I'd completely forgotten about Mom. I sort of still hoped she'd never find out about all this. 

"We have to call Mom _now_?" I exclaim, slightly panicked. "She'll be home tomorrow afternoon. It would probably be better to tell her in person." 

"Stacey...do you really think this is the kind of thing that should wait until tomorrow?" 

Once again, I know there's no use arguing. I follow Mrs. Pike into the kitchen and show her the number to Mom's hotel. I sit down at the kitchen table and watch Mrs. Pike dial the number. The phone rings four times after the desk clerk connects Mrs. Pike to Mom's room. 

Mrs. Pike turns her back to me when someone finally answers. "Hello? Oh...Nick? This is Diane...Diane Pike. Is Maureen there?" There's a long pause. I'm fairly sure I hear Mom scream on the other end. Mrs. Pike speaks again, "Maureen? No...she's fine. She's fine. _Maureen_..." 

I can't listen anymore. I walk to the back hallway and take the stairs up to my bedroom. I set my purse on the bed. Then I take out a stack of magazines from under the desk. I've been in the hospital enough times to know how boring it is, both for visitors and patients. I slide the magazines into a cloth tote bag. I add a half-completed book of crossword puzzles. I wonder how long it takes to recover from alcohol poisoning. And a person _can_ recover, right? Because how do doctors get alcohol out of a person's blood? I take a deep breath in an attempt to settle the panic fluttering in my stomach. 

Mrs. Pike is waiting for me in the kitchen. "Your mother will be here in about four hours," she tells me. 

"She's coming back _tonight_?" I exclaim. 

"Of course," replies Mrs. Pike. Her face darkens slightly. "Stacey...you do realize how serious this is, don't you? You know about alcohol poisoning, right?" 

"Of course I do!" I protest, quickly. 

"Then you know, Stacey, that people die from alcohol poisoning. Kids your age. Stacey, I'd expect you of all people to realize the seriousness of this," 

I nod and look down at my feet. I do know. Or at least I should. After all the times I've gone into insulin shock or been hospitalized for weeks at a time, I should have more sympathy for Cokie, instead of for myself. I know what it's like to lie in a hospital bed, wondering if you're going to die and looking into your parents faces, knowing they're wondering the same. I'm almost glad Cokie's unconscious. No one should see the fear of death in their parents' eyes. 

Mrs. Pike holds out a black coat to me. It's actually Mary Anne's, but I put it on anyway. Mrs. Pike and I walk across our yards to her house. Once there, Mrs. Pike sends Mallory, Nicky, Margo, and Claire over to my house to assist in the clean up effort. I feel a vague sense of smug satisfaction knowing that Mallory and Margo have to clean my house. 

"Thank you, Mrs. Pike," I say to her on the drive to the hospital, "for everything." 

"Of course, Stacey. I would never wish anything bad to happen to you or your home or your friends. Your mother would have done the same for my children," Mrs. Pike replies. I suspect she has more to say, but she stops there. 

It's about ten-thirty when we reach Stoneybrook General. The parking lot is mostly empty. A nurse in the ER directs us to the ICU on the second floor. Mrs. Pike and I ride the elevator in silence. My stomach has long sunk down to my knees. I don't know what I'm supposed to say to Cokie's parents. Are they going to yell at me? Are they going to blame me? Can they sue my mother? And if Cokie is dead, what am I supposed to say then? 

When we step off the elevator, I hook my arm through Mrs. Pike's and intwine my fingers within hers. I'm gripping her hand far too tight, but am afraid that if I loosen it, I might collapse, or worse, run away. Mrs. Pike doesn't say anything. I suspect that, for the first time tonight, she doesn't have an answer. 

I've never really met Cokie Mason's parents. That is, we've never been formally introduced. I've seen them around, but I don't know their first names or where they work or if they're any nicer than Cokie. Mrs. Mason sold me a ticket to the school musical last spring. She seemed friendly. Mr. Mason reminds me more of Cokie, sort of bored and cold. I see him at the end of the hall, talking to a woman in a white lab coat. He doesn't look bored and cold now. He looks frightened. 

Grace and Mrs. Mason are sitting together in the waiting room. Mrs. Mason has her arms around Grace, clinging to her as I cling to Mrs. Pike. She's sobbing into Grace's shoulder. Mrs. Mason is short and a little chubby. She doesn't look a thing like Cokie and I actually have to remind myself that this is Cokie Mason's mother and she's crying over Cokie. There's something odd in that. That Cokie Mason has a mother, a mother who loves her and cries over the thought of losing her. It seems almost unnatural. 

Mrs. Pike drops my hand and strides over to Mrs. Mason. She speaks to her in a soft voice and extends her hand. Grace notices me finally, her head sort of rolling away from Mrs. Mason to my direction. Her face is completely expressionless. She looks tired and worn out. 

Grace stands and walks over to me. There are wet spots along the hem of her purple sweater and right leg of her jeans. "Let's go to the bathroom," she says in the same hollow voice from earlier. 

I follow Grace down the hall and into the women's bathroom. There are no chairs or benches, so I perch on the edge of the sink. Grace leans back against the wall. 

"Is Cokie...all right?" I ask, even though I know she's not. 

"They're pumping her stomach. Or they were. I think they're finished. Mr. Mason's talking to the doctor," 

"So, Cokie's going to be okay now, right?" 

Grace shrugs. 

"What happened to your sweater?" I ask her. 

"Cokie sort of came around in the ambulance. She threw up on me," 

"So, she's awake?" 

"No. She passed out again," Grace replies. "I think God's punishing us, Stacey." 

"For lying to our parents and having a party?" I don't have a lot of religious experience, but from the times I've gone to youth group with Grace, I gather that's not the way things work. 

"Not everything's about you, Stacey," Grace snaps. She straightens and walks out of the bathroom. 

Back in the waiting room, Mrs. Pike is talking to the Masons. Mrs. Mason has stopped crying and Mr. Mason's frowning and stroking his beard. Is that good or bad? Before I can decide, Mrs. Pike glances up and beckons me over. Grace is nowhere in sight. 

I stand uncomfortably in front of the Masons. I wonder what Mrs. Pike has said to them. "I'm Stacey McGill," I finally say. "I'm very sorry about what happened to Cokie. I didn't realize how much she'd been drinking. I wasn't serving alcohol at my party, so I...I just didn't realize. I'm sorry." 

Mr. Mason nods, but Mrs. Mason looks away. Neither of them say anything. I wonder if they believe me. 

I sit down on the couch opposite them. Mrs. Pike joins me. For awhile, we all just sit silently, trying very hard to not look at each other. I wonder if this is some kind of weird punishment constructed by Mrs. Pike and my mother. Did they plan this out over the phone? That I should sit around the ICU all night waiting to hear if Cokie Mason's going to die? Is this supposed to teach me a lesson? 

Grace is right. Not everything's about me. 

"Is Cokie going to be okay?" I whisper to Mrs. Pike. 

Mrs. Pike frowns. "I don't know, Stacey. It's too early to tell. She's on a respirator. It's breathing for her." 

"Do the Masons think it's my fault? Did you tell them about Austin Bentley? _He_ should be down here," 

"Stacey, I don't think this is the time for assigning blame," 

My face grows hot. "Of course not," I agree. I remove some of the magazines from my bag. Mrs. Pike and I read them for awhile. After about twenty minutes, Grace reappears from wherever she disappeared to after leaving the bathroom. She sits down between the Masons and stares at her knees. She's acting like she's still Cokie's best friend when really she's barely said three words to Cokie since ninth grade. For some reason that irritates me. 

Around twelve-thirty, I turn to Mrs. Pike and say, "You don't have to wait with me any longer. You can go home." 

Mrs. Pike shakes her head. "No, I think I should stay. I want to speak to your mother." She sounds very tired. 

As usual, I don't argue with her. Despite her and Mom's problems, I can only benefit from Mrs. Pike's presence. After all, she's (surprisingly) on my side. As one a.m. nears, I find myself becoming very nervous and jumpy every time the elevator doors open. I check the clock every two minutes. I'm not expecting Mom until at least two, but there's no telling how fast she's making Mr. Prezzioso drive. 

At one straight up, the elevator doors open. I crane my neck around, as my stomach does a backflip. But it's only Mr. Blume. Grace leaps up and runs to him. 

"We just got home and listened to your message," Mr. Blume says to her. I almost die. Grace explained about Cokie's alcohol poisoning on an _answering machine_? 

Mr. Blume embraces both the Masons. He holds Mrs. Mason for a very long time. She starts crying again and screams, "Oh my God, Hal, why is this happening?" 

Mrs. Mason falls back onto the couch and buries her face in her hands. I look away, embarrassed to be a witness, and feeling like very much the outsider. 

"Where's your mom?" I ask Grace, who's standing beside me. 

"What does it matter?" snaps Grace. She crosses the waiting room to stand beside her father. I just can't win with Grace tonight. 

When Mr. Blume finishes talking with the Masons, he comes over and introduces himself to Mrs. Pike. He listens to my side of the story. When I'm through he says that, of course, it's not my fault. He isn't angry at all. I think it's the longest conversation Mr. Blume and I have ever had. I decide I like him. He reminds me of a kindly grandfather. I wish my mother would be so understanding. 

I'm relieved when Mr. Blume takes a seat next to Mrs. Mason. I need someone else here on my side and my mother is fond of the Blumes. Grace puts on her father's coat, which is a light brown corduroy with suede patches on the elbows and makes her look rather old. She rests her head against his shoulder. It's the closest I've ever seen Grace and Mr. Blume. I start to miss my father, which is strange since I haven't thought about him for awhile. I think I stare at Grace and Mr. Blume until two-ten when the elevator chimes. 

Somehow I just know. I leap to my feet and hurry around the couch. For a fleeting moment, I'm filled with the hope that perhaps Mom isn't mad. Then the elevator doors open and all fleeting hopes are quickly dashed. 

Mom steps out of the elevator, her lips drawn in a thin, angry line. I've never seen her look so furious. She's gripping the strap of her purse so tightly that her knuckles are stark white. Mr. Prezzioso's with her, but at least he doesn't look upset. They're walking at a normal pace. It seems like forever before they reach the waiting room. 

"Mom - " I start. 

"Anastasia..." Mom interrupts in a tight voice. "I don't even know what to say to you," 

And so she says nothing else. Instead, she steps around me and heads straight for Mrs. Pike. They move into a corner of the waiting room and speak in such soft voices that I can't even guess at what they're saying. Mr. Prezzioso comes to stand beside me. He lays a hand on my shoulder. I'm thankful that he doesn't lie and tell me everything will be all right. 

Mom and Mrs. Pike don't talk for very long before moving over to the Masons and Mr. Blume. The Masons and Mr. Blume stand. Grace remains seated. I hope that later she'll tell me all that's said. I time the conversation. It lasts six minutes and forty-eight seconds. Mom wrings her hands the entire time. Mr. Blume nods a lot. The Masons frown and don't say very much. 

The only part of the conversation I hear is when Mom says, "Again, I am very sorry," then she turns around and hurries past me and hisses, "Get your things. We're going home." 

I've endured a lot of uncomfortable silences in the last few weeks. I think the elevator ride to the lobby beats them all. I'd prefer it if Mom screamed and ranted. Instead, she ignores me. She won't even stand beside me. Mrs. Pike _and_ Mr. Prezzioso have to stand between us. In the parking lot, we walk Mrs. Pike to her station wagon. Mom thanks her for all her help and I know I should do the same, but I'm currently incapable of speech. Instead, I hug her. I don't know how I ever could have thought that Mrs. Pike hated me. 

In Mr. Prezzioso's car, I sit in the backseat with Mom's coat and several of Mr. Prezzioso's shirts that hang beside the opposite window. Mr. Prezzioso's car always smells like bananas. I've not yet discovered why. Mom breaks her silence before we've even left the parking lot. 

"I still don't know what to say to you, Anastasia," she says. 

I almost ask how that can be. She had a four hour drive to consider it. I bite my tongue. 

"Anastasia, what were you thinking?" Mom demands. She turns and stares at me. "Well?" 

"It wasn't my fault," I say, softly. 

"What wasn't your fault? Lying to me? Having an unsupervised party? Drinking? _Were you drinking, Anastasia?_" Panic starts to rise in Mom's voice. 

"No, Mom! Didn't you listen to anything Mrs. Pike told you? It wasn't supposed to be like that! We were celebrating Emily's birthday. It wasn't really even a party. It was...more like a gathering. Then Austin Bentley and his jerk friends crashed and brought the alcohol. Cokie was already drunk when she got to the house. None of this is my fault!" 

"How can I believe any of this, Anastasia? I trusted you. How can I ever trust you again?" 

"I'm telling the truth," I protest. Tears roll down my cheeks. 

"I don't know what I'm going to do if that girl dies," Mom says, shaking her head. "Do you think I should get a lawyer?" I assume she's talking to Mr. Prezzioso. 

"Is Cokie really going to die?" I ask. 

"I don't know, Anastasia!" Mom shouts. 

Mr. Prezzioso clears his throat. "You know, I don't think - " 

"I don't want to hear it, Nick," Mom snaps. 

"It's just that - " 

"I'm not discussing this with you anymore. So, just shut up," 

No one says anything else the rest of the drive. When we get home, Mr. Prezzioso unloads Mom's luggage and carries it up the driveway. I think he's being a little too nice to someone who told him to shut up. I hold my breath as Mom turns her key in the lock. 

"Well..." she says when she opens the door. 

I look over her shoulder. The house is in perfect order. No one would ever guess that only a few hours ago forty kids were crowded in there. I heave a huge sigh of relief. 

"Hmm," is all Mom says, as she tosses her keys onto the table beside the staircase. 

"See?" says Mr. Prezzioso. 

Mom turns around. "Oh, you're going to gloat now?" she demands. 

"I'm not gloating," argues Mr. Prezzioso. 

"Can I go to bed?" I ask. Suddenly I'm exhausted and not at all in the mood to listen to some stupid argument. 

Mom doesn't reply. She's busy scanning the living room. I think she's searching for her coffee table. I run up the stairs and slam my bedroom door. Mom doesn't call after me. 


	21. Chapter 21

One would assume that after the night I've had I would sleep most of Sunday away. Originally, that was my plan. But when I open my eyes Sunday morning, I know I won't be falling back to sleep. I'm awake and somehow, not at all tired. I roll over and check the alarm clock. It's thirteen after nine. As much as I'd like to stay in bed all day, pretending Saturday night never happened, I realize that's impossible. I kick back the sheets and pull myself out of my nice, warm bed. I throw on a pair of old jeans and a blue v-neck sweater, then brush my hair. 

I assumed Mom would still be asleep, but when I step into the hall, I hear her voice down in the kitchen. It's raised, but I'm not able to make out her words. She must be on the phone. I slip into the bathroom, wondering who Mom could be talking to. Mrs. Pike? Mr. Prezzioso? The Masons? Maybe it's news about Cokie. _Bad_ news. Grace, Mrs. Pike, and Mom all made it very clear that Cokie really could die. I guess I didn't believe it. I don't want Cokie to die. Sure, we've never been friends and back in middle school Cokie sort of terrorized the Baby-Sitters Club. But she doesn't deserve to die. And despite all the mean things I've said about her, Cokie Mason isn't terrible. We sit together in English class (because the seating is alphabetical) and we've had a good time. She's still snotty and a bit mean-spirited, but she doesn't torment Mary Anne anymore and...and her faults and attributes don't matter too much because whatever kind of person she is, Cokie Mason doesn't deserve to die. 

My stomach's doing backflips as I descend the stairs. Mom's voice has risen, but I'm not sure if it's because I'm getting closer or because she's getting angrier. When I reach the bottom of the stairs, I pause and listen. Eavesdropping is wrong, I know, but I need to assess the situation before stepping into it. 

"How am I to blame for all this?" Mom demands in a tight voice. "How is this my fault? I can't watch her twenty-four hours a day, Ed." 

My stomach does more than a backflip. It twists up into a knot. Mom called Dad. I can't believe it. It never occurred to me that she'd call him. It never occurred to me that she _could_ call him since I threw away his address card. And why should she call him? This doesn't concern him. It's none of his business. He doesn't care about me or my life, so why should he care that I might be (very, very indirectly) to blame for a girl almost dying of alcohol poisoning? 

"What does that matter?" Mom exclaims. "It's none of your concern where I was...no, it's not...well, I wasn't here...no, I'm not telling you where I was...that's not the point...that's not the point...that's not the point, Ed!" 

I decide it's safe - and possibly for the best - to enter the kitchen. If Mom's consumed with her bitterness and anger toward Dad, then she might not have any left over for me. Mom doesn't acknowledge me when I walk into the kitchen. I'm not sure she fully realizes that I'm even present. She's standing by the phone with a hand on her hip, appearing furious (although not quite as furious as last night). She's already dressed with her hair and make up done. There are deep, dark crescents under her eyes. 

I can hear Dad's muffled voice through the receiver. Mom listens for awhile. I pour a glass of orange juice and start buttering an egg bagel. I slide into a chair at the table and watch Mom. She frowns at me and turns partially away. 

"Well, I'm sorry you feel that way, Ed," Mom says, although she doesn't sound sorry at all. "It's difficult raising a teenager when there's absolutely no support from the father...of course I got November's check. That's not what I'm talking about...she just walked in...just a minute...just a minute!" Mom turns back to me and holds out the phone. "Your father," she tells me in the flat voice she reserves for talking about Dad. 

I shake my head. There's nothing I have to say to him. He has no right to yell at me or judge me or judge Mom's parenting. This isn't about him and I don't want him involved. 

Mom puts the phone back to her ear and turns away again. "She doesn't want to talk to you," Mom tells Dad. "Well, why do you _think_? Maybe because you haven't bothered to contact her in over a month...a mass produced change of address card doesn't count, Ed...if you could stop being a complete bastard for more than five seconds then perhaps - " Mom stops abruptly. Dad hung up on her. 

Mom slams down the phone and whirls around, her eyes flashing with anger. For a moment, I'm frightened my earlier theory was incorrect and Mom's going to turn on me with all the pent up rage she has for my father. Instead, Mom storms across the room and pours a fresh cup of coffee. I watch her stir in creamer with a slightly shaking hand. She brings her coffee over to the table and takes the chair opposite mine. Mom continues silently stirring her coffee. The crescents under her eyes are even darker up close. She looks stressed and tired. I feel very sorry for her. This was supposed to be a special weekend for her. She doesn't go on vacation very often. She should be relaxing in a hotel spa right now. I've ruined her weekend, like I've ruined the weekends of so many others. 

"How did you get Dad's number?" I finally ask her. 

Mom sips her coffee. "I called Eric," she replies. Eric is Dad's brother. 

"Oh," 

Mom takes another sip of her coffee. My mouth feels very dry, even though I've drained my glass of juice. I tear the rest of my bagel into tiny pieces. Mom watches, but doesn't say anything. It's not a good sign when Mom doesn't feel like nagging me about my diet. 

"I called the hospital this morning," Mom says after awhile. 

"Oh...is Cokie all right now?" 

Mom sets down her cup and furrows her brow. "No, Stacey, Cokie's not all right. I don't think you appreciate the severity of the situation. Cokie's on a respirator. She's in a coma, Stacey. She might never wake up. She might have irreversible brain damage. She might die." 

I swallow a lump that's suddenly formed in my throat. "But...but...Grace said they pumped her stomach. She should be okay now." 

"Stacey, doctors pumping a stomach is no guarantee. Most of the damage was already done. Cokie's blood alcohol level was dangerously high. She'd already absorbed way too much alcohol into her blood stream. Stacey, it worries me that you don't know this. I...I don't know what would have happened had Dee not been here. Actually, I do know. Cokie Mason would be dead on our den floor." 

"No, she wouldn't," I argue. "I'm sure that as soon as Grace stopped screaming, she would have figured it out. We aren't stupid, Mom. We would have called for an ambulance." 

"Really?" replies Mom. I don't think she believes that and neither do I. "I suppose it's my fault that you don't know about alcohol poisoning. I shouldn't have assumed you'd learn about it in school. I've talked to you about sex and smoking and drugs and drinking and peer pressure, but for some reason I never thought to speak to you about alcohol poisoning. I'll take the blame for that. I guess I never expected it to be an issue because of your diabetes and because you've always been so responsible and trustworthy. You haven't given me the problems I used to worry you would give me. I've been so proud of how you've handled your high school years. You have such a nice group of friends. Julie's a little weird, but then all the Sterns are, so I can't really hold her accountable for that. I never expected that you and your friends would abuse my trust like this." 

I've never felt so small. Or guilty and shamed. I never thought I could feel this bad. As sorry as I felt for myself, Mom makes me feel fifty times worse. And I'm not even that sorry for myself anymore. I'm sorry for Mom and the way I've betrayed her. The consequences of my actions are not my own. They're Mom's too. What I've done has affected her beyond the broken coffee table and stained carpet and looming possibility of Cokie Mason's death. I am a disappointment. She may never trust me again. 

That horrible part of me, that selfish part of me, tugs at me, making me think how unfair this all is. Aside from lying to Mom, I didn't do anything wrong. None of this is really my fault. Cokie could have passed out anywhere. Unfortunately, she happened to pass out in my den. But that wasn't my fault. 

"This wasn't my fault," I blurt out. 

Mom looks at me thoughtfully, taking a sip of coffee. "All right then," she says, setting down the cup. "Tell me why none of this was your fault." 

I appreciate how reasonable Mom is being, especially considering the blow up she just had with Dad. Maybe she's willing to come over to my side of things. I take a deep breath and tell her the entire story of Emily's ill-fated birthday party, glossing over certain details, like how long the party had been planned, and leaving out others, like the brown stain in the dining room and Mary Anne's disgusting misuse of my bed. 

"And none of this was your fault?" Mom asks when I finish. 

"That's right. I wasn't serving alcohol. Cokie didn't get drunk here. I tried to break up the party and when that didn't work, I very responsibly requested the Pikes' assistance. You should call Austin Bentley's parents. This is all _his_ fault," 

Mom closes her eyes and rubs her temples. "Stacey, I hardly think you are blameless in all this." 

"What? Why not?" 

Mom sighs and runs her fingers through her hair. She looks absolutely exhausted. "Stacey, did it occur to you that if you had not thrown a party in the first place, Cokie would not have had the opportunity to pass out in our den? And had you not thrown a party, no one could have crashed it. I'd still have a coffee table and you'd still have my trust. Cokie could have passed out anywhere last night, but you provided her the opportunity to pass out here. You are responsible for that, Stacey, so don't try to convince me that you are completely blameless," 

I suppose Mom has a point. I nod and stare at my plate, twisting a strand of hair around my finger. Mom pushes a notepad and pen toward me. I hadn't noticed them sitting on the table. 

"Make a list of everyone you invited to your party," Mom tells me. 

I nod and pick up the pen. My eyes shift to the edge of the table and for the first time, I notice the SHS Phone Directory sitting there. 

"You're calling everyone's parents?" I exclaim. "Mom! You can't do that!" 

"Stacey, right now, all of Stoneybrook is talking about Cokie Mason nearly dying in our den. Don't you agree that your friends' parents should hear the truth and not rumors and lies?" 

"This isn't fair, Mom!" I protest. "You're going to get my friends in trouble. This isn't their fault. Most of them didn't even know you weren't going to be home!" 

"So, you lied to your friends, as well as to me? Is there anyone you haven't lied to this weekend, Anastasia?" 

A sudden switch to my real name is never a good sign. I shake my head, numbly, and begin the list. I write down the phone numbers I know, too. Mom watches me for awhile, then stands and pours a fresh cup on coffee. I'm writing out Erica Blumberg's phone number when Mom sits down again. 

"Nick thinks I'm overreacting," she tells me. "He thinks your lying to me and throwing an unsupervised party isn't that big a deal. He thinks you've learned your lesson and so, I shouldn't be too angry." 

Normally, I wouldn't give a flying fig what Mr. Prezzioso thinks, but in this case, he has proven himself to be one of the few reasonable adults so far involved in this mess. I add him to the list of people on my side along with Mrs. Pike and Mr. Blume. So far, it's a rather short list, but I expect if to grow considerably throughout the day. 

"I must admit, Stacey," Mom continues, holding her head in her hand, "I wonder if he's right. I wonder if I am overreacting. I did some stupid stuff when I was a teenager. You're allowed to make mistakes. Mistakes are inevitable. If it had just been the lying and the party, I think I could have gotten over it. But, Stacey, a girl almost died. She still could die. And regardless of whether or not you are at fault, this is not something I can overlook. There are consequences here that I doubt you've even considered. What if the Masons sue me? We could lose everything. Nick doesn't think I'm liable, but Nick is an unrelenting optimist. I would have appreciated your father's opinion, but unfortunately, he was more concerned with accusing me of being an unfit mother and a whore. That's one of the many problems with your father, he can never focus on - " Mom stops and sighs. She reaches for the notepad and pulls it toward her. She studies it and sighs again. "I never thought I'd look at a list and decide the Sterns are the most reasonable people on it." Mom stands and crosses to the phone. 

I push back my chair and stand. "I'm going back to my room," I say. 

Mom holds out her hand. "Sit," she commands. "You are staying here and apologizing to every single parent for deceiving their children." 

"Are you joking?" I cry. This is beyond humiliation. 

Mom glares at me and begins dialing Julie's number. I sit down again. The phone rings three times before someone answers. 

"Hello? Jeanie?" Mom says into the receiver. "This is Maureen McGill...I'm not having a very good day, actually...have you spoken to Julie about last night?...oh, you just got home...the party? You knew about the party?" Mom gives me a strange look, as if I know what Mrs. Stern's talking about. "No, I didn't give them permission...yes, well, apparently it's the weekend of lying daughters..." 

So, now Julie's in trouble. I almost cry. Not just because Julie's in trouble, but because all my friends are. No one's going to speak to me Monday morning. I'll be a social outcast. Mom's angry and disappointed, Cokie's in a coma, Dad has once again proven that he doesn't really care about me, and now I am friendless. I fold my arms on the table and rest my head, eyes tight to fight back the tears. I listen to Mom explain the situation to Mrs. Stern. It's weird because on Mom's end it sounds like a normal conversation, like they're discussing the next PTA meeting or the rise in the price of eggs at the A&P. Mom's visibly relieved, which makes me even sorrier for her and for myself. The Sterns are easy. They don't yell or become angry. Once Mom works her way down the list to the Bernsteins and the Sheas and the Chows, it won't be so easy. Not all parents are as forgiving as the Sterns and the Blumes. 

When Mom is done with Mrs. Stern, she hands the phone to me. I feel rather silly apologizing. It's not like I lied to Julie about the party. I apologize anyway because Mom's watching me. I tell Mrs. Stern that I'm very sorry for convincing Julie to participate in an unsupervised party. Mrs. Stern says she's sure Julie didn't need any convincing, then accepts my apology. In the next half hour, I deliver the same apology to Mrs. Kishi, Mr. Blumberg, Mrs. Black, and Mrs. Hoffman. Mrs. Hoffman is a little frosty, but everyone's relatively understanding. Mom dismisses me to my bedroom after the Shillabar twins' mom becomes rather nasty and almost makes me cry. Mom wants me shamed, not verbally abused. 

Upstairs, I close my bedroom door. Mom's already arguing with Mr. Chow. I really don't want to listen to that. I wish I had my own phone line. Even more, I wish I had someone to call. I think I've burnt all my bridges this weekend, or at least Mom is in the process of burning them for me. I should be able to call Mary Anne. It surprises me how much I want to call her. Last night, her and Pete making out on my bed, that doesn't seem so important anymore. I've learned there are worse things. Sure, I am still never using my comforter again, but I am ready to forgive Mary Anne. 

I fall back into my armchair and kick a leg over one of the arms. I pick up _Heart of Darkness_, this boring book we're reading in English class, off the floor where I left it the other night. I read about three lines in fifteen minutes. I can't concentrate. I drop the book back onto the floor. I settle back in the chair and attempt to clear my mind of all the worries cluttering it. I stare at the alarm clock on the nightstand. I stare at it until eleven o' clock when my stomach starts rumbling. I decide it's safe to go back downstairs. 

In the kitchen, Mom's just hung up the phone. Her eyes are red-rimmed. She pulls a waded tissue from her skirt pocket and dabs at her eyes. 

"What's wrong?" I demand, alarmed. 

Mom looks embarrassed. "Nothing," she says. 

"Who were you just talking to?" 

Mom tosses the tissue in the trash can and wipes the corner of her eyes. "Marian Bernstein is a bitch," she finally replies in a choked voice. 

I barely mask my surprise. Mom almost strictly reserves cursing for Dad. I don't think I've ever heard her call anyone a "bitch", except my third grade teacher and that was to the teacher's face. "Mrs. Bernstein made you cry?" I ask. 

"No. Mrs. Shea made me cry. Don't worry. I didn't cry until after hanging up. At least I managed to come out of that conversation with some dignity," 

"What did Mrs. Shea say?" 

"What didn't she say? Just a lot of nonsense about single mothers destroying the moral fiber of America. She requests that you stay away from Katie," 

"No problem," I reply. Katie Shea's Emily's friend, not mine. I doubt I'd spoken a single word to her all year before last night. "So...what did Mrs. Bernstein say?" I ask, hesitantly. Mrs. Bernstein has never struck me as particularly cruel or callous. Strict and a bit overbearing, yes. But Mom wouldn't call her a bitch without good reason. 

Mom's face softens slightly. "Oh...well, you know how protective she is of Emily's reputation. She's...very angry. It was actually a very enlightening conversation. It certainly explained a few things about Emily. And, well, Stacey...Mrs. Bernstein would prefer that you and Emily not see each other for awhile," 

"But Emily's one of my best friends!" I exclaim. "This is so unfair! Everything I did was to make Emily happy!" 

I burst into tears. Mom envelopes me in her arms and holds me tight. I sob into her shoulder, smearing her blouse with mascara. Mom strokes my hair and makes soft, soothing noises in my ear. She knows I don't deserve this. 

"It wasn't supposed to be like this," I sob. 

"I know, I know. We all make mistakes and must face the consequences of those mistakes. This is an unfortunate consequence," 

I push her away. "How can you be so unfeeling, Mother?" 

"What?" Mom replies, looking puzzled. "I am _not_ unfeeling, Anastasia. I am on your side in this matter. Marian Bernstein is being unnecessarily hard-hearted. As a mother, I understand her point of view, but that doesn't mean I agree with her. I think I've been much more reasonable and understanding than most parents would be in this situation, so don't you dare call me unfeeling." 

The color has drained from Mom's face and I feel the color draining from my own. I've crossed a line and there's no stepping back. "But it isn't fair," I argue. "I make one mistake - one _little_ mistake and people act like I personally poured the alcohol down Cokie Mason's throat. Lots of kids have parties and nothing bad happens. I do it once and the entire world stops to stone me. _It isn't fair!_" 

"Life isn't fair, Anastasia," Mom replies, her voice rising. "Is it fair that I go away for a relaxing, peaceful weekend and am awoken in the middle of the night with the news that a girl nearly died in my house? During a party my daughter threw behind my back?" 

"Oh, please, Mother. You weren't asleep. You were screwing Mr. Prezzioso! Just like you've been screwing him for the last year and a half!" 

I never thought my mother would slap me. But she does. It's not a weak or half-hearted slap either. It's hard and it leaves a lingering sting. I raise my hand to my cheek in shock. Mom's expression is a mixture of fury and surprise. Neither of us can believe she just slapped me. I consider slapping her back. 

"I didn't know," I spit out, "that you were the only one in this house allowed to make mistakes. I didn't know that throwing a party was a worse sin than committing adultery. And I didn't know that only my actions had consequences. I am _so_ sorry, Mother." 

The words spill from my mouth without my even thinking them. It's like my mouth has developed a mind of its own. I'm not sure if I really mean what I am saying, but I must if the words are pouring out of me. 

I almost expect Mom to slap me again. She looks furious enough. Instead she points out the window toward the Pike's house. "No consequences? Dee Pike will hardly look me in the face! We will never be friends again, Stacey. Mrs. DeWitt avoids me at the supermarket and I constantly wonder who else she and Mrs. Pike have told. I helped Nick ruin his marriage. And none of those things are worse than the way I feel about myself every single day. Just because you are too self-centered to see them doesn't mean the consequences aren't there. And you can't tell me how you want to move beyond my affair, then proceed to throw it in my face whenever it suits you," 

"I am _not_ self-centered," I protest. 

Mom laughs and throws up her hands. "Well, I'm glad you heard _something_ I just said. And I'm glad you zeroed in on the most important part - the part about you," Mom turns and starts toward the back hallway stairs, then stops and whirls around. "What does this have to do with anything, Anastasia?" she demands. "Of all the things that have happened in the past twenty-four hours, why are you picking a fight about my affair with Nick? Nick and I are not the problem here. You are just like your father. Instead of focusing on the central problem, you focus on all the little things surrounding the problem. Maybe you should think about that." 

Mom marches out of the kitchen and into the dining room and up the back hallways stairs. Once she's out of sight, I storm through the dining room and into the living room and up those stairs. Mom and I pass each other in the upstairs hallway. Mom's crying, which makes me start crying again. We don't speak. We both go into our bedrooms and slam the doors. 

I stay in my room for about thirty seconds. The house is suffocating me. I can't stay here any longer. I grab my purse and car keys off the desk and charge back out into the hall. I consider leaving without a word, but that would probably just get me in more trouble. I press my ear to Mom's bedroom door. She's in there crying and talking on the phone. I open the door without knocking. Mom's sitting on her bed, tears streaming down her face, the receiver pressed to her ear. 

"I'm going out," I inform her. 

"Excuse me, Nick," she says into the receiver. She covers the mouthpiece and glares at me. "Where are you going?" she asks. 

I hadn't thought that far ahead. Is there anywhere I can go? Is anyone still speaking to me? "I'm going to the hospital to visit Cokie Mason," I reply. 

Mom stands and sets the receiver on the bed. She steps forward and plucks the car keys from my hand. She tosses them onto the nightstand. "No car," she says. "That's your punishment." 

My jaw drops. "How am I supposed to get around?" I demand. 

Mom sits down on the bed and picks up the receiver. "You have two legs," she replies. 

"Can't you go an hour without telephoning Mr. Prezzioso?" I snap. Mr. Prezzioso's an idiot for even speaking to her after the way she treated him last night. 

"What does that have to do with anything?" Mom replies, then turns her head away. "I'm sorry, Nick...I don't know. It's like she doesn't have enough problems in her life. She has to create some more...I agree..." 

I step out of the room and slam the door. I don't make it any farther. I'm rooted to the spot outside Mom's door. I almost go back in and apologize. I'm being as cruel and unreasonable as Mrs. Bernstein and Mrs. Shea. I grip the doorknob and rest my forehead against the door. On the other side, Mom's sobbing and I can barely make out her words. It sounds like she's saying, "I don't know what to do. Please tell me what to do." 

Very quietly, I start crying. I have so much to make up to so many people. 


	22. Chapter 22

I let go of the doorknob and back away. I make it to the top step of the stairs where I sit down. I fold my knees up and bury my face in them. I sob as quietly as possible, so Mom doesn't hear. I don't want her to know I'm out here. I don't want to see her again until I've pulled myself together and am capable of making a coherent apology. I _am_ sorry and Mom _is_ right. I am more self-centered than I have a right to be. And I am acting like Dad, selfish and stubborn and skirting the real problem. I don't want to be like Dad. More than anything in the world, I do _not_ want to be like Dad. 

Paddy comes out of the bathroom and rubs against my back, purring. I reach around and pull him onto my lap and press my cheek against the soft fur on the back of his neck. Paddy's only willing to be held for so long, then squirms away and struts down the hall toward the guest room. I wipe my eyes with the sleeve of my sweater. I don't feel like crying anymore. In her bedroom, it sounds like Mom's stopped crying as well. I hear pieces of her conversation with Mr. Prezzioso, things like "...not trying at all..." and "...shouldn't be an issue..." It's all so fragmented and nonspecific that I can't even guess when she's referring to me or herself or the Masons or someone else entirely. 

I feel bad for Mom, not only because of how I treated her or the trouble I've caused, but because she has no one else to call, except Mr. Prezzioso. If I were her, I wouldn't want the father of Jenny Prezzioso to be the only person I had to call for parenting advice. Mom starts moving around in her room. She must be off the phone because I hear drawers sliding open and closed, but not the sound of her voice. Mom turns on the faucet in her bathroom and lets it run for quite awhile. Finally, she shuts it off and the closet door opens and closes, then Mom comes through the bedroom door. 

"What are you doing out here?" she asks in a surprised voice. I'm thankful she doesn't sound angry anymore. She's changed her blouse since I smeared my mascara all over the other one. Her eyes are dry, but still a little red. It looks like she's completely redone her hair and make up. 

"I wasn't eavesdropping," I reply in an edgier voice than I intend. 

Mom's face tightens somewhat, like she's preparing herself for another fight and doesn't wish to be caught off guard. 

"I didn't mean to snap," I tell her. "I've been thinking." 

"Oh?" Mom replies, sounding a bit skeptical. 

"You were right. About _almost_ everything. I've been selfish. I guess I should take _some_ responsibility here, although I still think Austin Bentley's much more to blame than me. I hope someone's contacted his parents. However, I shouldn't have thrown the party, even though I had the best intentions. And I should be more worried about Cokie Mason than I am about myself. And I _am_ worried about Cokie. I don't want her to die and not just because I don't want the Masons to sue you." 

"You've done a lot of thinking," Mom observes. 

"I guess I already knew all this. I just didn't want to admit it," 

Mom nods. Her face relaxes from its tight, expectant expression. I'm surprised that it looks like Mom's prepared to forgive me. I guess she's so worn down by so much else that drawing out a fight with me isn't the least bit desirable. 

"So...I'm sorry, Mom," I tell her, then plunge on because I can't help myself, "Although, I think it was unnecessarily harsh comparing me to Dad. But I guess I wasn't exactly playing fair when I called you a whore...again." 

"I don't recall you calling me a whore," 

"Oh. I thought you might think it was implied in my comment about you screwing Mr. Prezzioso," 

"Don't be crude, Anastasia," Mom snaps. "But I accept your apology. And I apologize for slapping you. That was wrong. I should not have done that." She doesn't move to hug me or comfort me. Maybe she doesn't completely forgive me or maybe she's not completely convinced of my sincerity. I don't blame her. I don't yet deserve her complete trust. I have to earn that all over again. 

"Have you eaten?" Mom demands, out of nowhere. 

It will never cease to amaze me the times Mom chooses to worry about my diabetes. 

I shake my head and stand, wordlessly walking down the stairs to the kitchen. I suppose it's easier for Mom to worry over my diabetes than over anything else that weighs on her mind. At least my diabetes is a normal worry for her, one she knows how to control. There's no second guessing. She can say "eat this" and "eat now" and that's one problem solved for the day. Mom and I move around the kitchen in silence. A quiet chilliness hangs between us. We're afraid to say anything because we might say more things we regret. Words cannot be taken back and apologies do not erase them. 

Mom and I sit across from each other at the kitchen table, eating ham and cheese sandwiches. I don't have an appetite, even though I should. I've hardly eaten all day. It's one of those times when I'm eating just to eat. Just to fill up and make Mom happy. Mom's not hungry either. She's nibbling at the edges of her sandwich and chewing each bite a lot longer than necessary. I wonder what she's thinking. Hopefully not about what a wretched daughter I am. 

"I'm still going to the hospital," I tell Mom after I finish my sandwich. I guess it's to reassure her that I care about Cokie. 

Mom nods. "Good. I'll be by there later. Nick's coming over soon. I have some things to do and Nick's going to drive me." 

"Oh?" I reply. Mom's being deliberately vague. "Should I come?" 

"I think it's best you don't," 

"Oh. Well, maybe I'll head to the hospital then," I don't immediately stand up from the table. I'm hoping Mom will offer my car back. She doesn't, so finally I have to stand and say, "Well...I'll see you later then," 

Mom nods and starts clearing our plates off the table. I pause in the doorway, still holding out hope that Mom will rethink my punishment. Finally, with a sigh, I leave the kitchen and take my white parka out of the hall closet. I zip it and flip up the hood, then slide on my gloves. I still haven't fixed the flat on my bike, so I have to walk. I cram my hands into the pockets of my parka. It's absolutely freezing out, which makes my punishment all the more cruel. 

I'm at the corner of Forest Drive and Fawcett Avenue when a dark green Toyota sedan pulls up alongside me and the passenger side window rolls down. 

"Do you want a ride?" asks Mr. Prezzioso. 

"This is my punishment," I reply. 

"I won't tell," 

Mr. Prezzioso leans over and opens the door. I slide into the passenger seat and latch the seatbelt. The car still smells like bananas. The heater's on full blast and Men At Work is playing on the car stereo. I should have known Mr. Prezzioso would have bad taste in music. 

"Where are you going?" he asks, turning one of the vents toward me. 

"Julie Stern's house on Rosedale Road," I reply. 

Mr. Prezzioso flips a U-turn and heads back down Forest Drive. I take off my gloves and hold my hands in front of the vent. We sit in silence as Mr. Prezzioso drives us through downtown Stoneybrook. After all the time we've spent together over the last few weeks, I guess we don't have anything to say to each other without Mom sitting there prodding the conversation along. When we're sitting at a red-light on Athens Road, it occurs to me that Mr. Prezzioso must think me as spoiled and wicked as I consider Jenny. 

"I apologized to Mom," I tell him when the light turns green. "I think she's forgiven me. She said so. I'm not sure. I mean, I think she mostly has. I said some awful things to her. Did she tell you what I said?" 

"Yes. She did," says Mr. Prezzioso. He sounds very uncomfortable. 

"Well, then, do you think she can forgive me? For the things I said? If I prove I'm truly sorry?" 

"Well, she's your mother," Mr. Prezzioso answers. 

"Yeah...so, she has to forgive me? Because she's my mother and her love is unconditional?" 

"Yes," 

"My father's love is conditional, you know," I don't know why I'm telling this to Mr. Prezzioso. It doesn't strike me as something he particularly wants to hear. Maybe that's why I'm telling it to him. Because I know he's not going to react. I could say anything I pleased and he'd just nod and look uncomfortable. There's something freeing in that. 

"I don't know your father," Mr. Prezzioso says. At least he doesn't lie to make me feel better. 

"Julie's house is up ahead," I say, pointing in the direction of the Sterns'. "It's the tannish colored one. Oh, there's Julie," 

Julie's in her driveway playing basketball with Paul and their older sister, Rachel. Mr. Prezzioso pulls the car alongside the curb. The Sterns don't notice us. All the promises I've made to myself to be a better, less self-centered person are quickly forgotten when I see Julie jump on Rachel's back, shrieking and laughing. It's so unfair. Mary Anne, Emily, Grace, and I, we have all these problems that just keep piling up. Our lives are falling apart all around us...and then there's Julie, playing basketball in her driveway, as if the world's a perfect, carefree place. I guess for Julie the world _is_ perfect. It's like she lives in a bubble. She just sails on through, past everyone's misery, blissfully unaffected. It's just not fair. 

"I changed my mind, Mr. Prezzioso. Take me straight to the hospital," 

It's too late though. Rachel points in our direction and Julie turns around. She smiles when she sees me sitting in the car and comes bounding toward us. I get this strange feeling in my stomach, like hot anger mixing with cold jealousy. Part of me wants to smack Julie in the face with the car door, so for a moment she could know how it feels to be me. 

"What are you doing here?" Julie asks after flinging open the car door. She bends down so her head's inside the car with us. 

"You're playing basketball," I say. 

If Julie detects the edge in my voice she doesn't let on. "We're helping Paul get ready for basketball season," she tells me, then turns her attention to Mr. Prezzioso. "My brother's on the varsity basketball team," she tells him. 

"I played basketball in high school and college," Mr. Prezzioso replies. 

"Really? So did my sister. Well, she only played two years at Stoneybrook U. I'm on the varsity volleyball and swim teams. I'm the best butterflier in Southern Connecticut. I'd be the best in the entire state if not for this girl up in Torrington," 

Julie starts listing all the competitions and medals she's won. I stare at her in disbelief. After all that's happened this weekend, after all the trouble we're in, Julie can stand there discussing last April's surprise victory over Redfield High's swim team and whether or not the girls and boys teams should compete against each other. And she speaks to Mr. Prezzioso in such a casual voice, completely free of worry or strain. Julie's in the middle of this along with me and Grace and Emily and Mary Anne, but she might as well be on the outside. And on the outside, she isn't even looking in at us, she's looking in the other direction, pretending we're not there. That's what Julie does. She blacks out the parts of life she doesn't wish to see. There's something wrong about that. And terribly unfair. 

"No one wants to listen to your bragging, Julie," I snap at her. "Thanks for the ride, Mr. Prezzioso. I'm sure Mom's waiting for you," 

I push Julie back as I step out of the car. She ducks back down and waves at Mr. Prezzioso. "Bye!" she cries, as I push her back again. I slam the car door closed. Mr. Prezzioso looks a bit confused, but that's how he generally looks around me, so I can't really say if it has anything to do with Julie or not. 

"It's good that you're here," Julie tells me after Mr. Prezzioso's driven away. "Now we can play two-on-two. Me and Rachel against you and Paul. Paul's really good, so it won't matter much that you're not." 

"I don't want to play basketball, Julie. Are you in much trouble with your parents?" I'm embarrassed to admit that I sort of hope she is. Things can't always work out for her. 

"Oh, not really. Don't worry about it. I am supposed to help pay for a new coffee table for your Mom though. And I'm not allowed to use any of my allowance for it, which means I have to get a job," 

"I was thinking about replacing the coffee table, too. I bet it was expensive. I might ask Mrs. Grossman if I can start at the Kid Center a couple weeks early," The Kid Center is the day care facility at Bellair's. Mary Anne and I work there during the holiday season and summer vacation. We're not supposed to start until the first of December though. "I could talk to Mrs. Grossman about getting you a job," I suggest. 

Julie scowls. "At the Kid Center? Yuck! I hate kids. You know that," 

I've never understood how anyone could not like kids." All right," I say. "Anyway, I'm on my way to the hospital. I thought I'd stop by to see if you want to come with me," 

"Why are you going to the hospital?" 

"To visit Cokie, of course," 

"Why?" 

I stare at Julie. _Why?_ She needs an explanation? "Gee, Julie, because she's in the hospital and might die. Did you know that? My mom says she might. Or she could be brain damaged - " 

"I think Cokie Mason already was brain damaged," Julie interrupts. 

I hesitate a moment, not quite sure if Julie's serious or joking. I can't read her expression. Her face is calm and relaxed. That doesn't give me any hints. "Oh...well, I guess it's pretty bad.," I say. "I mean, I don't really know much about alcohol poisoning, but...Cokie's in a coma. I'm scared, Julie. Will you come to the hospital with me? You and Cokie are sort of friends, after all," 

"Cokie's not my friend. She hears great gossip and has freakishly large breasts and says dumb things. That makes her kind of interesting. There's nothing interesting about being in a coma," 

I step back, stunned. I've never heard Julie sound so...cold. And the thing is, she doesn't really _sound_ cold. Her words are, but her voice is just like normal, like we're talking about the things we talk about every day. She even looks normal in her beige jeans and SHS windbreaker. She looks like the same Julie Stern I've been friends with since ninth grade, but something about her has changed in the last few minutes, something intangible and strange, like Julie has unintentionally revealed a secret part of herself that she tries very hard to hide from the world. 

I remember back in the autumn of tenth grade when we learned that Mrs. Hawthorne from the history department was dying of bone cancer. Mary Anne, Julie, and I had had her for third period World History in the ninth grade. It was the first class I remember ever having with Julie. If she'd been in my classes during seventh and eighth grade, I hadn't noticed. Mrs. Hawthorne was only in her early-thirties and everyone at SHS loved her. Mary Anne cried the entire day and I cried some too. And Grace cried, even though she'd never taken a class from Mrs. Hawthorne. Julie just looked irritated. I remember it quite vividly. We were at lunch, sitting at our usual table with a huge group of girls. Everyone was sobbing, except Julie and Emily, but at least Emily was visibly upset. I remember glancing across the table and seeing this look of complete irritation on Julie's face. At the time, I was so busy comforting Mary Anne that I didn't give the look a second thought. Instead, I filed it to the back of my mind, so I wouldn't have to know that side of Julie. 

Mrs. Hawthorne didn't die until the spring. Her funeral was on a Thursday afternoon. The school canceled all after school clubs and sports that day. During lunch, Julie complained about the inconvenience of our canceled swim practice. She complained so loudly and so long that finally some boy at the next table threw a roll and told her to shut up. I guess I was too wrapped up in my own grief to be bothered. Julie didn't attend Mrs. Hawthorne's funeral. She was one of the few kids who didn't. She held her own private swim practice instead. 

"Why won't you visit Cokie?" I demand. 

Julie looks puzzled. "Why should I? You said she's in a coma. What does it matter if I go or not?" 

"She could _die_, Julie," 

"That's really not my problem," 

I almost start crying. Not for Cokie or the memory of Mrs. Hawthorne because I'm too self-centered for that. I almost cry for myself because I'm remembering the summer after tenth grade. That was the last time I was really sick. Mom and I were vacationing with my Uncle Lou and his family at their house in Vermont. I hadn't been feeling well for awhile, which I kept secret from Mom. I should have learned my lesson after the last time I did that. I ended up in this tiny hospital in a small Vermont town. I was there for three weeks. The doctors thought I might die. They never said so, but I could see it in their faces and in my parents' faces. My cousins, Jonathan and Kirsten, cried every time they came into my room. Mary Anne called two or three times a day. Grace and Emily called every evening. Julie never called. One weekend the Bernsteins drove Emily, Mary Anne, and Grace out to Vermont to visit me. I don't recall what excuse Emily gave for Julie. At the time, I was too worried about dying to care. After I returned to Stoneybrook and after Julie and Emily returned from journalism camp, I didn't ask Julie about it. I guess I was sort of grateful to pretend that I hadn't almost died. 

I'm not grateful anymore. I don't want to have been pushed aside like Cokie and Mrs. Hawthorne. Is that what Julie thought when I was sick? That it wasn't her problem? 

I'm seeing this side of Julie, this side I realize was always there, and it wasn't so hidden that I didn't catch glimpses of it. I just didn't want to see. I was willing to overlook it, maybe because overlooking it made life easier, and maybe because Julie tries so hard to keep it hidden that she must know it's wrong. There are limits to Julie's friendship and those limits say, "I can only care _this_ much and I can only go _this_ far. Don't ask for anything more. That's all I have." Julie cares about little things like Homecoming Queen and journalism ethics, but anything beyond that is too great. The Julie Stern presented to the world is a lie. The real Julie Stern is someone else. Someone whose heart is rather cold. 

I'm sad to know this about Julie, but my sadness quickly boils into anger. It starts down low in my stomach and rises all the way to my brain. After all my years of friendship, Julie would toss me aside as easily as she's tossing Cokie Mason. She tossed me aside once before and I didn't react. I let her do it, then forgave her without question. If I had died in that Vermont hospital, would Julie have said, "Gee, that's really not my problem," then gone outside to play basketball? Would she have shoved me aside because grief is inconvenient? 

Apparently, Julie has tired of talking about Cokie Mason because she switches the subject to Austin Bentley. "He's such a jackass," she tells me. "Who does he think he is crashing our party? Paul and I are thinking about egging his car. Unless you think you might get in trouble for that too. I wouldn't want you to get blamed, Stacey." 

I raise my hand and slap Julie hard across the face. I don't consider it. I just do it. Anger and disappointment boil inside me and I have to let it out. Of everyone, I never thought Julie would hurt me. I want her to hurt the way I'm hurting right now. 

Julie's gapes at me and steps backward, pressing a hand to her cheek. Her eyes are stunned and wounded. "Why did you do that?" she asks in a small voice. 

I can't answer that. I cannot articulate the thoughts and feelings clashing inside me. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe I shouldn't blame Julie. Maybe I'm just being self-centered again. Julie's staring at me and in the driveway, Paul and Rachel stare at me too. I almost apologize, but don't know if I'm truly sorry. I don't know anything about myself anymore. 

So, I run away. 

The Sterns don't live far from Stoneybrook General. I run all the way to Cherry Valley Road and don't stop until I'm through the doors of the hospital. I stop in the lobby to catch my breath. It feels like my lungs are frozen solid. It hurts to breathe. I fall back into a blue cushioned chair. I hold my head in my hands and close my eyes very tight, so I won't cry. I'm so sick of crying. It drains me and solves nothing. And who would I be crying for? Myself, or Cokie, or Julie? I'm not falling apart in the lobby of Stoneybrook General. I've had enough self-pity for one day. 

I take a drink from the water fountain, then ride the elevator to the second floor. Once off the elevator, I make it to the end of the hall, but can't quite make the turn into the waiting room. I press my back against the wall. I hear voices in the waiting room. It sounds like a lot of people. I wonder if they're all here for Cokie. I don't think I can face them. Maybe this is how Julie feels. I'd like to think I'd feel differently if Cokie hadn't nearly died in my house, or even if we were friends. I'm probably wrong. I seem to have lost something within myself that once made me a good person. I wish I knew where it went, so I could get it back. 

I walk back to the elevator and press the down button. I'm watching the lighted numbers count down when I hear a familiar voice shout, "I am not being irrational!" 

The voice comes from the other end of the hall. I walk slowly toward it until I reach the bend in the hallway. I know that around the corner the hallway dead ends into the stairwell doorway. I crouch down and peer around the corner. A fake fern partially obstructs my view, but I can see the backs of Mr. and Mrs. Blume. I recognize Mr. Blume's brown corduroy coat with the leather patches on the elbows and Mrs. Blume's unmovable red bobbed hair. Mrs. Blume has on a suit with giant shoulder pads, so that she looks like a refuge from _Dynasty_. The Blumes are blocking Grace, but I can hear her voice loud and clear. Probably the entire floor can. 

"Keep your voice down, Grace," hisses Mrs. Blume. 

"What does it matter?" demands Grace. "Pretty soon everyone will know everything because I'm going to tell." 

"You are not," argues Mrs. Blume. 

"Yes, I am! I'm telling! You can't keep me silent any longer," 

"You want to ruin your life? Everyone's lives?" Mrs. Blume demands. "This isn't just about you, Grace. Have you even considered the consequences?" 

"What about the consequences of not telling?" Grace cries. "God is punishing us. He's punishing me. He's punishing everyone. We're sinners. We're horrible, horrible people. And no amount of praying can make it go away. I'm tired of lying. I'm tired of keeping secrets." 

"Nonsense, Grace," replies Mr. Blume. "No one is punishing anyone for anything. Cokie's own foolishness almost killed her. Not God. Not fate. Not divine retribution, or whatever else you want to blame this on. We are trying to protect you. That's all we've ever tried to do. Now stop acting like a selfish, spoiled brat. We give you everything you want. Why aren't you happy?" 

"Because a Corvette can't clear my conscience, Dad," Grace snaps. 

Grace finally comes into view as she steps around Mrs. Blume. I slink back against the wall. Grace strides past. She's still wearing the same sweater and jeans from last night. Mr. Blume is a few steps behind her and Mrs. Blume a few steps behind him. Grace must have said something I missed because Mrs. Blume growls, "I will break your jaw first." The Blumes disappear through the elevator doors. 

My heart pounds in my chest. I was right. Grace _is_ hiding something. And Mr. and Mrs. Blume know about it. They're _forcing_ her to hide it. It must be something terribly bad. What did Gracedo? And when could she have possibly done this awful thing? Whatever it is, I wonder if Grace will really tell and if Mrs. Blume will actually attempt to break Grace's jaw. As absent and overindulgent as they are, the Blumes have always seemed like nice people. I'm not sure about that anymore. 

I use the stairwell to go down to the lobby. Out in the parking lot, I see the Blumes' black Lexus pull into traffic. I watch their car disappear down Cherry Valley Road. Any other day, I would have flagged them down and asked for a ride. The Blumes would have given me one, even today. They would have smiled and acted cheerful and thought I was fooled. That must be a family trait, switching emotions on and off, and presenting to the world only the most polished facade. 

I flip my hood back up and put on my gloves, then start toward home. The cold makes the walk seem longer. So, I'm cold and miserable and my feet are starting to hurt. I can't say I'm completely undeserving of this. The walk gives me time to think. I have a lot to think about - about myself and Cokie Mason and Mom and the Blumes and Julie and Mary Anne. And a million other things. I have much to be sorry for. And I _am_ sorry, but my regret never comes out the way I intend. The more I try to fix my life, the worse it gets. Mostly that's my own fault. I've lost control and no matter how I try, I can't regain it. 

I remember when life was simple. That wasn't so long ago. Even just a year ago, life was much simpler. I was blissfully unaware of Mom's affair with Mr. Prezzioso, Dad and I were speaking, and Mary Anne and I were best friends, _really_ best friends. We didn't fight or keep secrets or question each other's intentions. Life was fun. Mary Anne, Emily, Julie, Grace, and I, we were fun. We would hang out at the mall and Pizza Express and the Stoneybrook Cinema. We had slumber parties and birthday parties and holiday parties and no one ever nearly died of alcohol poisoning. We didn't have arguments and worries beyond the typical high school arguments and worries. We _were_ happy, right? Grace's mood swings weren't so extreme, Emily wasn't so stressed, Julie wasn't coldhearted, and Mary Anne wasn't rounding the bases with Pete Black (and certainly not on my bed). 

What happened to us? How did things get so bad in such a short amount of time? I remember last autumn as bright and carefree, but I guess it had its dark edges, too. Mom was cranky and on edge (did the Prezziosos separate last autumn? I don't recall), Dad and I hardly spoke, Grace refused to get out of bed for a week in October, in November Emily had a meltdown during journalism and threw a printer out the window, Julie almost broke some girls' nose during a volleyball game and didn't seem too sorry afterward, and Mary Anne...Mary Anne wasn't happy. I knew that but didn't press her with questions she didn't want to answer. I thought I was being a good friend, but maybe all along I've been anything but. 

And maybe all along we were all just ticking time bombs waiting to go off. And by some cruel twist of luck, we all went off at the same time, leaving us completely incapable of sorting through the debris and putting the pieces together again. We're all our own disasters and it's just too much. Too much work, too much effort, too much pain and misery. We can't help each other when we can't even help ourselves. Maybe this is it. We've run our course. Me and Mary Anne, me and Emily, me and Grace, me and Julie...me and Dad. This is it. This is our end. 

Tomorrow is a new day and a new Stacey McGill. I am starting over. Even if I must start over alone. 


	23. Chapter 23

I have to walk to school Monday morning. I'm going to have to fix the flat on my bike since Mom seems serious about this No Car punishment. Walking shouldn't be so bad. After all, I walked to and from school all the years before I had a car. I'm spoiled now and Mom's choice of punishment truly does seem to be the cruelest choice. 

I walk to school alone. It rained last night, so I walk slowly. Apparently, my boots weren't made for slick sidewalks. I'll probably be late, which isn't the best way to start off my new life. In the future, I'll have to better tailor my wardrobe selections to the current weather conditions. I'm also wearing my red cashmere sweater, the one I bought on my last trip to New York. Cashmere always manages to lift my spirits, even just a little, and today I'll need some spirit lifting. 

I did a lot of thinking last night. I had plenty of time for thinking since Mom and I weren't really speaking. That same quiet chilliness still hanged between us. I know we both need more time and I'm okay with that. I'm prepared to make a real effort. Not just with Mom and me, but with everyone. My life and my relationships have gone off course and it's time to set them right again. I want to be a normal teenager with a normal life. I want to be the person I was before this autumn. That Stacey wasn't perfect, but she was happier and nicer and less self-centered. She must be within me, somewhere, and I am going to find her. 

Last night, I sat down at my desk and spent two hours writing apologies to my friends. I apologized to Emily for pressuring her about the party and that I hope, despite her mother, that we are still friends. I don't think Emily's angry with me, but her behavior's been rather unpredictable lately, that I need to be on the safe side. I don't know if Grace is upset with me either, but apologized anyway for being rude and insensitive at the hospital. Emily and Grace's letters are only about a page. Mary Anne and Julie's are much longer. I went through several drafts on both, trying very hard not to sound accusing or cruel. I decided last night that I still want to be Mary Anne's best friend and Julie's friend, as well. I can forgive Mary Anne and I can forgive Julie, too. I explained my feelings to Mary Anne regarding her relationship with Pete and my anger and frustration and jealousy toward it. I was very honest and hopefully Mary Anne will appreciate that. Hopefully Julie will appreciate it, too. Although heartfelt apologies may not crack the ice around Julie's emotions. But I feel better after writing the letters and maybe that's the most important thing. 

The bell rings as soon as I reach SHS. Julie and Paul are at the bike rack by the front steps, chaining up their bikes. They usually get a ride from Emily. Maybe Mrs. Bernstein has forbidden Emily from having any friends at all. A lack of social life would certainly give Emily more time to do homework. Actually, Emily might like that. I wait for Julie and Paul to walk through the front doors before continuing toward the main building. I'm not ready for any face-to-face confrontations. 

I don't have time before first period to stop at my locker. I rush straight to Mrs. Dowery's chemistry class. It's a lab day, or as I privately refer to it "social hour with a little chemistry". My lab partner is probably the only person at SHS who _hasn't_ heard about Cokie Mason, but she knows all about it by the end of the period because Cokie Mason is all anyone can talk about it. Mrs. Dowery must enjoy the gossip as much as everyone else because she doesn't tell us to shut up even once. I spend the period ignoring stupid questions and pretending to concentrate on the lab. 

After class, I finally make it to my locker, then slide the letters into Mary Anne, Emily, Grace, and Julie's. Second period, Julie and I have study hall. Sometimes I regret dropping out of journalism, but today is not one of those times. At least I can disappear into my books and, probably, no one will bother me. Julie and I usually sit together in the far right corner, so we can whisper and Julie can copy my calculus homework without interruption. When I walk into study hall, Julie's seated at our usual table across from Trevor Sandbourne. She looks grumpy, so I sit at another table, alone, and bury myself in my chemistry lab. I sneak several glances at Julie throughout the period, but as far as I can tell, she never notices me. The last time I glance at her, she's wearing a pair of sunglasses. 

I pass Mary Anne in the hall after second period. As soon as she sees me, she lowers her head and quickens her pace. I see the corner of a pink envelope pressed between two of her books, so I know she has the letter. Maybe by the end of third period, she won't be avoiding me. We have a substitute in calculus. I sit in the back with a junior whose name I don't know. Julie sits at her usual desk. After the substitute writes our assignment on the board, Julie turns her head toward me, but looks away quickly. Grace never shows up for class, which worries me. Has Cokie taken a turn for the worse? Is Grace's jaw still intact? I worry so much that by the end of the period, my stomach is twisted in tight knots. 

After calculus, I stop by my locker again. When I open it a pink envelope falls out. My already knotted stomach knots even more. Mary Anne's name stares up at me from the floor. So, she's given the letter back. I pick up the envelope and unfold the letter, flipping through the pages. Underneath where I signed, "_Love always, your best friend, Stacey_", Mary Anne has written in her neat cursive, "_Stop trying to control my life._" Control her life? I've never tried to control her life! I've only tried to help her make the best possible decisions. Opinions and advice aren't attempts at control. Mary Anne's nuts. I angrily cram the letter back into the envelope, slam my locker door shut, and storm off toward Mary Anne's locker wing. 

I stop as soon as I turn the corner. Mary Anne's nowhere in sight, but Julie's standing beside her own locker, reading my letter. Her eyebrows are knitted together in deep concentration and her expression is...confused? Embarrassed? It's impossible to read. Julie finishes the letter and folds it back into the envelope and slides it into her locker. And that's it. She turns and walks toward the stairs. What was I expecting? Tears? Sorrowful wailing? If I'm going to accept the limits of Julie's friendship, then I also need to accept the limits of my expectations. 

Emily barrels past me on the stairs, long brown hair flying, a stack of books about to fall out of her arms. I assume she doesn't see me, but then she shouts, "Don't worry about my mother!" She's out of sight by the time I turn around to reply. It's that single flicker of hope that gets me through fourth period English. It's the class I share with Cokie, the class we sit together in. I'm conscious of her empty seat the entire period. Mr. Grainier announces Cokie's condition at the start of class (stable, but still comatose), then proceeds to spend the period lecturing us about the dangers of binge drinking. Kids keep turning to stare at me. I want to disappear. 

I feel very alone as I walk to my locker after class. It's finally lunchtime. I'm not sure if that's a relief or not. The cafeteria just provides a bigger audience to stare and point and ask questions. Probably no one's doing that to Austin Bentley. Despite my vow to be less self-centered, this whole thing is still very much Austin Bentley's fault. Someone needs to make him take some responsibility. Mom went to the Bentleys' yesterday, but she told me nothing about the visit other than, "I went to the Bentleys'." I should probably just accept that Austin's escaping blame. 

Another note falls out of my locker. It's on regular, lined paper. At first I assume it's more hate mail from Mary Anne (maybe she's blaming me for the Spiers marital problems now, or for the "C" she got on last week's statistics test), but my name on the front isn't in Mary Anne's handwriting. Instead it's in Julie's straight, precise print. The note is very simple. It reads, "_I would never not want to be your friend._" That's as much apology as Julie can offer and I can accept it as enough. 

In the cafeteria, Mary Anne's sitting at a table beside the vending machines with the Shillaber twins and Katie Shea. Perhaps they're holding the first meeting of the I Hate Stacey McGill Club. I completely ignore them while inserting my change into the soda machine. I give the Diet Coke panel a hard punch and hope Mary Anne knows I'm pretending it's her face. I carry my soda and sack lunch to the other side of the cafeteria where Erica Blumberg and Lauren Hoffman are sitting. I apologized to them after first period and both were receptive to my apology. They've never been close friends of mine, but at least they're willing to forgive my flaws. 

The first thing Lauren says when I sit down is, "Cokie Mason came out of her coma." 

"What?" I cry. 

Lauren nods. "I was in the ASB room last period and Mrs. Monroe came in and told me. She talked to Mr. Mason or something," 

"So, Cokie's going to be all right? Is she brain damaged?" 

Lauren shrugs. "I don't know. Some of the ASB are going to the hospital after school, if you want to come," 

"Oh...maybe I will," And maybe I'll actually go into the waiting room this time. A wave of relief sweeps over me. Maybe Cokie _will_ be all right. And now I know where Grace (probably) is. I can worry a little less about her and Cokie. 

"Why are we sitting over here?" 

I turn my attention from Lauren. Julie's standing beside Erica, holding a lunch tray. 

"You know I _hate_ sitting by the salad bar. It always smells like ranch dressing," Julie says, setting down her tray. She starts unbuttoning her cream-colored peacoat. So, we're pretending that nothing happened between us. All right then. 

"Cokie Mason came out of her coma," Lauren tells her. 

"Fabulous," replies Julie, peeling off the coat. Underneath it, she's wearing the same glittery ice blue shirt she wore to Emily's party. She hangs the coat on the back of her chair. "I got my coat back from Dorianne Wallingford," she says to me. 

Oh, so _that's_ the coat. I'd forgotten what it even looked like. "Dorianne gave it back to you? I thought she was holding it for collateral." 

Julie twirls spaghetti around her fork and replies, "No, she didn't give it back. She was _wearing_ it. I saw her outside Coach Keller's office. So, I jumped her and took it back." 

Erica sets down her sandwich and turns to Julie. "I know I'm going to regret asking this," she says, "but why did Dorianne Wallingford have your coat?" 

"Because Pete Black was sitting on it while she was blowing him after Homecoming," 

Lauren drops her sandwich, her jaw falling. Erica's eyes sort of bug out as she clasps a hand over her mouth. I'm surprised Julie managed to keep that piece of juicy gossip to herself this long. 

"Wait, wait, wait," says Erica. "You're _wearing_ the coat?" 

Erica, Lauren, and I all shriek, "Ew!" at the same time. 

"Oh, calm down. Dorianne had it dry cleaned. I found the ticket in the pocket," 

"No amount of dry cleaning could erase the taint of Pete Black's seed. I'd _burn_ it," says Erica. 

"Ew. His _seed_. That's so gross. Please don't say any more," says Lauren. Lauren and Pete are pretty good friends. He's the ASB Vice President, so they spend a lot of time together. "Want to hear something even more disgusting?" Julie asks. 

"No," Erica, Lauren, and I reply together. Then we all giggle. It's nice to feel so normal again. 

Julie ignores us. "Trevor Sandbourne is in love with me," she announces. 

"Oh, he is not," I laugh. 

Julie scowls. "I know it's upsetting, but it's not impossible," she snaps. "He bothered me all through study hall talking about my eyes. Then he told me I look like an elf! And acted like it was some sort of compliment!" 

Erica chuckles. "Well, you do look sort of...elfish?" 

"Elvish?" I supply. 

"I do _not_ look like an elf," argues Julie. "I _knew_ I shouldn't have danced with him so much at Emily's birthday. He kept asking and I assumed he was just being nice. He gave me _this_ last period," Julie produces a folded sheet of sky blue paper from the pocket of her slacks. She dangles it between two fingers and stares at it with disgust. 

Lauren snatches it away. "A poem!" she cries, unfolding the paper. She starts laughing. "Oh...this is bad. _The gentle curve of your ski-jump nose. Your complexion as soft as a rose._" 

Erica shoots apple juice out of her nose, which only encourages Lauren who's now laughing so hard she can barely read. "Lovely lady laughing lovely," she chokes out before completely losing it. 

"Is there something wrong with my nose?" demands Julie. 

"Not according to Trevor," I reply and that's it. I can't hold in my laughter any longer. I collapse forward onto the table, laughing until my sides ache. 

Julie reaches across the table and grabs the poem from Lauren. She crumples it into a ball and shoves in back into her pocket. 

"Oh, you're _saving_ it?" asks Erica. She has tears streaming down her face. "For your scrapbook?" 

"No! I want to show it to Emily!" 

"Oh? Are you and Emily still speaking?" I ask, quickly regaining my composure. 

"Of course we're still speaking. Why?" 

"I saw you and Paul with your bikes this morning," I explain. I don't mention that Emily's not allowed to hang out with _me_ anymore. That's not something I wish to confide to Erica and Lauren. 

"The Bernsteins took away her car," replies Julie. 

"My mom took away my car, too!" I tell her. "Is that the only suitable punishment parents can think of? It certainly is the worst. Now I have to walk everywhere." 

"Isn't Mr. Prezzioso your personal driver now?" says Julie. 

"Hahaha," 

"Who's Mr. Prezzioso?" asks Erica. 

I blush, slightly. "He's...uh...my mom's boyfriend," I reply. That shouldn't be so embarrassing to admit. I need to work on that. 

Lauren turns to me with a funny look on her face. "Is he tall with kind of wavy black hair and drives a green car?" she asks. 

"Yes...do you know him?" 

"He lives in my apartment complex. He's on the other side of the courtyard. His brats broke my mom's windshield with a rock. I think they did it on purpose," 

"That sounds about right," 

"Do you know his ex-wife?" 

"Yes," I reply, uneasily. There's a strange feeling in my stomach. Lauren's questions are unsettling and I'm not sure why. "The Baby-Sitters Club used to baby-sit for them a lot. Why...do _you_ know his ex-wife?" 

Lauren laughs. "Oh yeah. I think the entire complex does," Lauren looks over at Erica and they both laugh. 

Lauren switches the subject to some sitcom she and Erica watched last night. I'm dying to know what Lauren and Erica find so funny and from the look on Julie's face, she's dying to know even more than me. I don't press Lauren and Erica for answers. Deep down, I think that maybe I don't really want to know. 

Lunch is definitely the highlight of my morning. I thought it would be awkward slipping back into my friendship with Julie. Instead it feels like any other day, as if nothing happened, and I guess we'll continue pretending that it didn't for as long as possible. Maybe Julie can pretend forever. And maybe so can I. 

Lauren and I pull our desks into the back corner during sixth period French. Mary Anne's sitting with Barbara Hirsch and still snubbing me. I don't understand why Mary Anne's so upset. If anyone has a right to be angry, it's me. After all, Mary Anne's the one who was rolling around half-naked on my bed with Pete Black. I don't see how I'm the bad guy in this situation. I snub her back. Lauren must notice, but doesn't say anything. We spend the period giggling as we attempt to accurately translate "lovely lady laughing lovely" into French. We end up with _"La dame charmante riant charmant. "_ We think it's correct. 

Mary Anne doesn't sit with me in statistics either. Instead she sits in the empty seat beside Howie Johnson. I can't believe how childish and ridiculous she's acting. I am _trying_ to make up with her and all she can do is throw unfounded accusations at me. 

"I heard we have a substitute!" Emily cries, as she rushes into the classroom. She dumps her armload of books onto our table. 

"Miss Everhart wasn't here for calculus," I reply. 

"Wonderful," says Emily, as the substitute walks into the classroom. "Maybe we won't have an assignment. I have so much work to catch up on. Mary Anne, what are you doing back there?" 

Mary Anne totally ignores Emily. 

Emily looks at me, questioningly, then comes around the table and takes her seat. Her hair looks a little windblown and the bags have returned under her eyes. She appears to be in a good mood though. 

"We're not supposed to hang out anymore," I tell her. 

Emily opens her government book and starts turning its pages. "My mother doesn't come to school with me," she replies in a matter-of-fact tone. 

"So, we can only be friends at school? I never even _see_ you at school. Where were you at lunch?" 

"In the journalism room, of course. We've never quite recovered from you and Julie quitting. There's so much to do. Mr. Arden wants a story on Cokie Mason. We got into an argument this morning because he wants me to write it. I think that's inappropriate. I was _there_. It would be biased. So, I had to assign it to someone else. But there's _no one else_. We have too many underclassmen who can't write. I had to assign it to Shawna Riverson! It's going to be a disaster. This entire issue's going to be a disaster. And Shawna's still calling me Comrade Bernstein!" Emily pauses for a breath, then slaps her hand down on her book. "Where's section two point five? Oh, here it is. Anyway, don't worry about my mother, Stace. You know how she is." 

No, I don't know. 

"I guess," I reply. 

"My parents worry about me. They're _so_ worried about my getting accepted to Georgetown. It's a lot of pressure. They don't want anything ruining my chances. Just...just don't worry about them, Stace. My mom has a short fuse, but doesn't hold a grudge. She'll forget all about this in a few days. _Trust me_," 

I wish I could. But I can't. 

----------- 

Erica offers me a ride home after school. She also lives on Elm, but far down at the other end, so far that I often forget we're sort of neighbors. Outside the school, Erica stops to talk to a group of her friends, while we're waiting for Lauren. Erica's friends question me about Cokie, but Erica tells them to knock it off. We talk about classes and teachers instead. After a few minutes, I notice Julie and Lauren by the bike rack. Just as I look over at them, they're looking back at me. They turn their heads quickly away and fall back into their conversation. I know they're talking about me. My stomach twists into knots again. What are they saying? 

Julie pedals past a couple minutes later and waves goodbye. Lauren joins me and Erica and we walk out to the parking lot to Erica's silver-blue Thunderbird. Half the bumper is crumpled. 

"What happened to your car?" I ask. 

Erica grunts. "Never let Claudia borrow your car," she replies, unlocking the passenger door. 

I get into the backseat behind the passenger seat. When Erica starts the car, Lauren turns around and says, "_La dame charmante riant charmant, "_ which makes me giggle. Maybe Lauren and Julie _weren't_ talking about me. Lauren's only ever been an in-class friend, so I don't know her well, but she doesn't strike me as the gossipy-type. She reminds me more of a less stressed, less serious Emily Bernstein - efficient and organized and not interested in pettiness and rumors. I shouldn't be so suspicious. After all, everything is _not_ about me. 

"We're going to The Argo," Erica tells me. "Want to come?" 

"Sure," I reply. There's nothing waiting for me at home. 

At Argo's, Erica orders a chocolate cherry milkshake, even though it's freezing outside. Lauren and I order hot apple cider. The three of us split an order of onion rings. Erica and Lauren are fun, which I guess I never realized before today. I could easily make them my temporary group, and if things don't work out with Mary Anne, my permanent one. It shouldn't be that easy, to just slip into a new circle and forget the old one. I'm just so tired of fighting and grudges and past disappointments. If Mary Anne doesn't want to make an effort to forgive, then maybe I should let her go. Maybe we'll all be a little happier then. I don't know. I wish I knew the answers. 

After leaving Argo's, we walk around downtown, window shopping, even though Erica declares that she hates any kind of shopping. Such a declaration seems so _wrong_, especially coming from Claudia Kishi's best friend. But Lauren and I drag her down the street anyway and after awhile, Erica stops protesting. Every few minutes, someone quotes Trevor Sandbourne's poem and we collapse into uncontrollable giggles. Maybe everything seems ten times funnier than it actually is because I've been unhappy for so long. At four o' clock, we drop Lauren off at Pete Black's. A group from the ASB is meeting there to visit Cokie in the hospital. I changed my mind about going. I don't want to be anywhere near Pete Black. 

"Watch out for the seed!" Erica yells out the window when Lauren's out of the car and walking toward Pete's house. Lauren turns and makes a horrific face at us. 

I've moved up to the front seat with Erica. I snap my seatbelt in place. It's a little weird being alone with Erica when I think of her as Claudia's current best friend. My replacement. Not that I blame Claudia for replacing me. I wasn't a very good friend to her, at least not near the end. I would have replaced me too. I have to wonder when I look at Erica, if my friendship with Claudia was a bit superficial. It had to have been more than shopping trips and fashion and boys. I wonder this because there's Erica in her non-descript clothes (jeans and a lime green t-shirt under a jean jacket), no make up, and messy brown hair, and she doesn't look like she belongs with Claudia, but I know she's a better friend to Claudia than I ever was. I could learn a lot from Erica. She wouldn't just give up on Claudia. 

"Can you take me over to Mary Anne's?" I ask. 

"Sure," Erica says. "Are you having a fight?" 

"Um...sort of. I don't know exactly what we're fighting about. Mary Anne just stopped talking to me," 

"That doesn't sound like Mary Anne," 

"You don't know Mary Anne then," 

Erica turns onto Burnt Hill Road. Mary Anne's in her front yard, bundled beneath a dozen layers of sweaters and scarves, raking leaves. Erica lets me out at the edge of the driveway. Mary Anne keeps raking. I thank Erica for the ride, then slam the car door. Mary Anne continues to ignore me as I walk toward her. A chilly breeze hits my knees and I attempt to pull my skirt down over them. Definitely must start dressing more functionally. 

"Hi Mary Anne," I greet her in a light, casual voice. 

Mary Anne grunts. 

At least she's _sort of_ acknowledging my presence. "It's awfully cold out for yard work," I comment. 

"I _know_ that. It's not like I have a choice," she snaps. "I have extra chores for the next month thanks to your mother's visit yesterday." 

"Oh. I didn't know Mom came over yesterday. Well, your dad and Sharon would have found out about the party eventually. Mom just did what she thought best. So, they're mad?" 

Mary Anne glares at me. "What do you think?" 

My patience wears thin. Very quickly. It's not like I twisted her arm about the party. I've apologized. What more does she want? "Look, Mary Anne. I'm sorry. I really am. I apologized in my letter and now I'm here to apologize in person. _I'm sorry_. Can we just forget what happened and move on?" 

Mary Anne throws down the rake. "No! We can't just move on! I'm sick of you always getting me in trouble! You _and_ your mother. This is the second time you've gotten me grounded in the last six weeks! First New York and now this stupid party!" 

"Leave my mother out of this! You know that if the roles were reversed, Sharon wouldn't hesitate to call and bitch at my mom. At least my mom had the consideration to talk to your dad in person," 

"Oh, she just wanted free legal advice!" 

"What's wrong with you, Mary Anne?" I snap. This must be how Mom feels when we fight, like her head's swimming in a sea of confusion. I don't know if I should be angry or not because I don't know why Mary Anne's so mad. "I've never forced you to do anything. New York was _your_ idea and you didn't hesitate to agree to the party. Stop blaming me for things you brought on yourself. I don't understand why you're even mad at me. I wasn't the one rounding second base with Pete Black on _my_ bed. And what's with you and Pete Black? Are you back together? Or were you just defiling my bed for kicks?" 

"See?" shrieks Mary Anne. "This is the problem! You're always bugging me about Pete Black. What Pete and I do is none of your business. And no, we're _not_ back together. I did what I did because I wanted to. I'm sorry, but the McGill women aren't the only ones in this town who have a right to loose morals!" 

My breath catches in my throat. "What is that supposed to mean?" I demand. 

"It means," Mary Anne replies, icily, "that the apple doesn't fall far from the tree. You are such a hypocrite, Stacey McGill. Criticizing me, criticizing your mom. I know _all_ about you," 

The knots are back, twisting tighter than ever before. "I don't know what you're talking about, Mary Anne," I say, softly. 

"You are _such_ a liar, Stacey. Did you think that Robert and Jeremy wouldn't tell? Pete told me about you back in tenth grade. Apparently, I was one of the last to know. Julie told Pete in _eighth_ grade. And Grace told her. I didn't believe it for a long time. I didn't want to believe that my best friend's a secret slut. I know I'm naive, but did you really think I'd never find out? Did you really think I wouldn't figure you out? You were never my best friend! You _used_ me. You used me to feel better about yourself! I am not a cure all for sluttish behavior. Stop hiding behind me and stop judging me. You may not have been the one _defiling_ your bed on Saturday night, but I'm not the one who dropped to her knees in _eighth grade_," 

"You don't understand!" I protest. 

"I _do_ understand. You used me and now you're trying to control me! You, Dad, Sharon - everyone wants to control me! You've screwed up your own lives, but you're not screwing up mine! I'm done with being used and I'm done with being controlled. No more! Go find a new best friend. Good luck finding someone who'll let you boss her around!" 

Mary Anne whirls around and storms up the front steps. She slams the door behind her. The street is so still and silent that I even hear the deadbolt slam into place. I stand in the Spiers' yard for awhile, staring at their house. I don't know what I'm waiting for. Maybe for Mary Anne to come out and say she made a huge mistake. All the lights shut off inside the house. I know she's not coming back. Oddly enough, I don't feel angry. I don't feel like crying either. All these emotions should be fighting within me, trying to set themselves free. Instead, I feel nothing. I'm numb. I'm tired of fighting. I'm tired of shouting. I'm tired of crying. I'm tired. I'm tired. I'm tired. Maybe Julie has the right idea. Maybe feeling too much only gets in the way. 

I leave Mary Anne's yard and walk home, my bookbag sagging heavily from my shoulder. Once home, I drop my coat and bookbag in the foyer and turn on the heater. I put the kettle on the stove and start heating water for tea. Rain starts to fall outside, first in slow, unsteady streams, then in quick, pounding sheets. I drop a peppermint tea bag into a mug of hot water and walk back into the living room. I turn the armchair toward the window, so I can sip my tea and stare out at the rain. A car circles the street. It's dark brown and drives past my house eleven times. I should probably call the cops. Mom would. Instead I just watch it go by. Mom comes home around six. The car passes by as she pulls into the driveway. It doesn't come back again. 

I heat the oven while Mom changes out of her work clothes. When the timer sets off, I slide in a casserole from the freezer. When Mom comes into the kitchen, she doesn't point out that I should have put it in half an hour ago. Together, we start a salad while making polite, but slightly strained small talk. Mom talks about problems at the new store in New Hope. When she's done, I lie about my day and say that, overall, it was very nice. I talk a lot about Julie and Erica and Lauren. Mom doesn't ask about Mary Anne. She must sense that something's wrong between us. Julie calls while I'm grating the cheese for the salad. I lean the phone against my shoulder, so I can talk and grate at the same time. Julie's upset because Trevor Sandbourne called and recited a new poem, in which he professed an admiration for her flat, narrow ass. So now Julie's paranoid that she looks like an elf, has a freakish-shaped nose, and a flat, narrow ass. Mom looks at me strangely when I say, "Julie, your butt is _gorgeous_. I love it," then laugh. I don't ask Julie if she spread rumors about me in eighth grade. That's what Mary Anne wants, for me to fracture my friendships, and be punished for my past. Maybe she has a right to that feeling. Maybe I'd feel the same way. But I'm tired of punishments, fair and unfair. 

I hang up with Julie just as Mom sets the casserole on the table. We sit down at the table and dish out our portions. I feel the chilliness hanging between us slowly disappear. I tell Mom about Julie and Trevor Sandbourne. She laughs hysterically when I recite the poem. I think she almost chokes on her salad. 

I feel almost normal. 


	24. Chapter 24

"Have you guys seen _Say Anything_?" asks Julie.

It's Friday afternoon and we're hanging out in the Sterns' backyard - me, Julie, Erica, and Lauren. Julie's swinging from a thick rope that hangs from a branch of the oak tree. She's standing on a wood board that she swears is sturdy, but doesn't look so. On the other side of the tree, Erica's pushing Lauren on the tire swing. I'm sitting on a plastic stool, shivering in my white parka because it's practically below freezing (or maybe not, but it feels that way). I'd much rather be inside the nice, warm house, but Erica and Lauren went berserk when they saw that the Sterns still had their treehouse. Julie, Erica, Lauren, and Emily were a pretty tight group in elementary school (long before I knew them), but not so much in junior high. Erica and Lauren haven't been to Julie's since the start of high school. The three of them have effortlessly glided back into their friendship, like there wasn't a three year gap. There are no awkward silences or stumbling over words. I'm not sure it's supposed to be that easy. They play "remember when?" a lot. It's hard not to feel like an outsider.

"I _love_ that movie," says Lauren.

"I think it's kind of dumb," says Erica.

"That doesn't matter," replies Julie. She's still swaying on the rope. Despite the freezing temperature, she's only wearing a thermal and a t-shirt with a long blue and white striped scarf wrapped around her neck. Julie has this thing about scarves. She claims to own forty-three. "So, Trevor Sandbourne shows up in my front yard last night - "

"With a boom box?" I laugh. "Please tell me he did not have a boom box."

"May I finish my story please?"

"Of course,"

"So, Rachel and I are sitting at our desks doing homework and we hear this music coming from outside. We go to the window and raise the blinds - and there's freakshow Trevor Sandbourne standing in my front yard with a boom box over his head, playing some crappy Nicky Cash love song,"

Erica, Lauren, and I howl with laughter. Lauren falls backward off the tire and just hangs there, upside down, laughing.

"It's not funny!" protests Julie. "So, I open the window and scream, 'my dad's a postal worker! And he has a gun!' but Trevor _won't_ go away!"

"You are totally making this up!" shrieks Lauren still upside down.

"I am not! Ask any of my neighbors! They all came outside to stare at the sideshow. It was so embarrassing! I could hear Mrs. Bernstein's big old donkey laugh all the way down the street!"

"What did your parents do?" I ask.

"Nothing! They thought it was hilarious. So, I went to the front door and threw a shoe at him,"

"Did it hit him?" asks Erica.

"No. There's a reason I don't play softball. I should have spiked a volleyball at him. I probably could have knocked him out. Finally, Mrs. Bernstein yelled that she was calling the cops and Trevor ran away. He took the shoe with him,"

"That sounds just like Mrs. Bernstein," I say.

"Ah, Mrs. Bernstein's not that bad. She didn't really call the cops. Instead she called my mom and they had a great laugh at my expense. Now Rachel's mad at me. It was her shoe I threw. I gave her Trevor's address and she's going over there tonight. I gave her permission to smack him with her anatomy book,"

Lauren laughs. "I wish I had your romantic problems," she says.

"Really? Because you can _have_ them,"

"I think you're being too hard on Trevor," says Erica. "He's really cute. And nice. His poetry _is_ pretty bad though. He should know better than to make rhymes about a girl's flat, narrow ass,"

"I thought you said there's nothing wrong with my ass?" Julie demands, turning her head to check out her butt while still swinging on the rope.

I roll my eyes. "It's fine, Julie," I assure her (for the tenth time this week).

Julie checks again. It's a bit unsettling to see Julie Stern self-conscious. She's already wearing her hair loose, instead of pulled back, in an apparent attempt to appear less elf-like. It's unsettling, yet reassuring - reassuring that Julie has human qualities and vulnerabilities.

"Why didn't you tell us about this earlier?" I ask Julie.

"I hadn't decided if I wanted you to know. I knew you guys would make fun of me. Then I figured Emily would tell you the first chance she got, so I might as well tell you the _real_ story,"

I frown. "Emily didn't say anything about it in statistics," I tell Julie. Emily and I haven't talked much this week, except for brief conversations before and after class. Emily came out of her self-imposed seclusion long enough yesterday to eat a ten minute lunch with me, Erica, and Julie. Emily has that strung out look again. I wonder if she's sleeping at all and wonder why the Bernsteins aren't doing anything about it.

Erica and Lauren insist on pushing me on the tire swing. I mostly forget about Emily. I think I deserve a break - a break from worries and secrets and lies. Erica and Lauren are my break from my old life, the life I don't know if I ever wish to return to. I miss the good things about that life - Grace and Emily and Mary Anne when things were right between us, when we sat around laughing and arguing and enjoying ourselves and each other. I miss when we were those girls who fit so nicely together. It's funny that I've started this new life and the only person to completely carry over to it is Julie. Julie, who I was the least close to in my old life. But then, perhaps that's why. We had the least invested and the least to lose. And somehow that worked out for us.

Mary Anne and I haven't spoken since our fight. We're doing a sort of mutual avoidance thing. I haven't told anyone what happened between us. Julie, Erica, and Lauren have asked. Even Emily asked, which surprised me that she noticed, although it shouldn't have. It's obvious that Mary Anne's not sitting with us in statistics. I want to tell someone. I want to trust someone with the truth. Julie already knows some version of the truth - that I gave Robert and Jeremy head in eighth grade - and I could probably tell her about the fight with Mary Anne without worry she'd spill my secrets (any more than she already has), but talking to Julie is about as useful as talking to a brick wall. A brick wall might actually be more reassuring.

The funny thing is, I'd take Mary Anne back if she wanted me. We'd wipe the slate clean. She'd forgive my deceit and I'd forgive her words. Things would go back to normal and we'd be the friends we were before this horrible autumn. It's silly to wish that. Mary Anne and I will never have the same normal again. Things don't just fall back into place, not for people like me and Mary Anne. I have to accept that we're both moving on, but moving in opposite directions. Mary Anne's building a new life and I'm building mine. I have to let her go. Completely.

At four-thirty, we drive downtown to drop Julie off at Uncle Ed's. Mr. Stern found her a job there. She sits at the front counter, taking phone-in orders, and handing out bags of chinese take-out. Yesterday was her first day and she says she spent the entire shift doing homework and reading a magazine. Erica lets Julie out in front of the restaurant. Julie turns to wave before going inside. She's wearing her cream-colored pea coat. Or, as Erica refers to it, her seed coat.

"What are you guys doing tonight?" I ask when Erica turns back onto the street.

"Babysitting," they reply at the same time, then giggle. They do that a lot.

"I need to start babysitting again," I say. I haven't babysat since September when I covered a job at the Marshalls for Mary Anne. I miss babysitting, but mostly I need the money. I talked to Mrs. Grossman on Tuesday and the earliest she can use me in the Kid Center is the day after Thanksgiving. And then I'll only be working Friday nights and weekends. At least until winter vacation starts.

"I'll pass off my excess jobs to you," offers Erica. "There's always too many once the holiday season begins. There'll be even more when the Kishis leave for Japan in December."

"I'll recommend you too," says Lauren. "I have a monopoly on babysitting jobs at my apartment complex. It's all couples with little kids and divorced men. The former is great for me because I make lots of money and the latter is great for my mom because she has a huge dating pool. She's dated just about every single man in the complex. Of course, that makes for rather awkward moments in the laundry room and at the mailboxes."

"Well, she can have Mr. Prezzioso if she likes," I reply.

Lauren laughs. "I doubt she wants him,"

I get this weird feeling in my stomach. It's a feeling I've been getting a lot this week when I'm around Lauren. I can't quite figure her out. I think we should be great friends. Lauren's smart and funny and we have a lot in common. We even sort of look alike, except Lauren's a little shorter and bleaches her hair (I'm certain of it, even though she denies it). Lauren's serious about fashion, just like me, although her look is more classic than trendy. She swears that ninety percent of her wardrobe comes from thrift stores, which impresses me. Everything she owns looks brand new. Lauren's a divorced kid, too. It's been a long time since I had a friend who knows what it's like to run interference between parents and listen to arguments about who gets the couch and who gets the crystal vase and who gets Stacey for Christmas this year. Lauren's dad lives in New Jersey with his new family and by the edgy way Lauren says "his new family" I get the impression that Lauren's almost as disappointed in her father as I am in mine. So, when I add all these things up, it seems like Lauren and I should be great friends.

But there's something unsettling about Lauren. She seems to genuinely like me. She laughs at my jokes and waits for me by my locker after school. And at the same time, she's constantly whispering with Julie and Erica when I'm out of earshot. I see her eyes shift toward me and she thinks I don't notice. She likes to ask odd questions that give me the impression she's probing for something. Sometimes she asks about Mr. Prezzioso and other times she just asks questions about my life and interests, so that I wonder if perhaps I'm completely paranoid. But that strange feelings keeps returning to my stomach, making me think that Lauren knows _something_ and is hiding it, while subtly taunting me about it. Would she do that? Maybe I'm so screwed up that I can no longer detect the line that blurs between good and bad, right and wrong, truth and lie.

"What are you doing tonight, Stace?" asks Lauren, turning around in her seat. She's wearing a wide black spandex headband. Lauren feels about headbands the way Julie feels about scarves.

"Nothing. Mom and I might go out to dinner or something,"

"You should come over," suggests Erica. "I'm only babysitting for my little brother and his friend. Claudia's coming over."

"Maybe," I reply, even though I know I won't go. Hanging out with Erica and Claudia would be too awkward.

Erica turns onto Birch Street, where Lauren lives. It's a couple blocks from downtown Stoneybrook. Lauren's apartment complex is painted an olive green with beige trim and is hidden behind huge trees that have mostly lost their leaves. The complex is large and spread out and all the units have balconies or porches. It's nothing like the apartment buildings I lived at in New York. Erica drives around the side of the complex, then pulls into a handicapped parking spot.

"That's my apartment over there," Lauren says, pointing toward one of the upstairs units. "With all the dead plants on the balcony. And over there is where your mom's boyfriend lives." Lauren points across the courtyard. I crane my neck, but try not to look _too_ interested. Mr. Prezzioso's apartment isn't straight across the courtyard from Lauren's. It's at a diagonal. The apartment's dark with all the blinds pulled shut. It looks like any other apartment. I'm not sure why I expected any different.

"From my balcony," continues Lauren, "I can see into his kitchen and partially into his living room."

"You _spy_ on him?" I ask, slightly horrified. Who wants to watch Mr. Prezzioso eating take out and walking around in his underwear?

"Of course not! But there are some things _no one_ can avoid," Lauren unlatches her seatbelt and opens the car door. "Well, I should go. I have a babysitting job in twenty minutes. Thanks for the ride, Erica. Have a good weekend, Stacey!" Lauren hops out of the car and shuts the door. She smiles and waves, then turns away and half-jogs down the pathway to her apartment, her tan leather backpack swinging from her hand.

"Are you coming up front?" asks Erica.

"Huh? Yeah, sure," I reply. I unlatch my seatbelt and climb between the front seats. My left foot catches on Erica's headrest and she has to help untangle me.

"Probably would have been easier to just get out of the car," says Erica.

"Probably,"

Erica giggles and puts the car into reverse. She backs out of the handicapped parking spot. I watch Lauren and Mr. Prezzioso's apartments disappear. That feeling has returned to my stomach. Lauren's dropping hints. She must be doing it on purpose. She's dangling it in front of me and thinking, "hahaha, I know something you don't." What has Lauren seen from her balcony? Is Mr. Prezzioso a drunk? A bad neighbor? Do he and Mom fight all the time? Does he hit her? Do he and Mom walk around the apartment naked? (I really hope not). Or maybe Lauren Hoffman's just a liar.

"You've been friends with Lauren a long time," I say to Erica.

"Since kindergarten. Lauren, Grace, Cokie, and I used to sit on top of the monkey bars and stomp on the fingers of kids we didn't like,"

"That's...you did that?"

"We were five,"

"Lauren's a bit...odd, isn't she?"

Erica brushes her bangs out of her eyes. "Not anymore than anyone else. I think she's pretty normal,"

"She's a nice person though, right?"

Erica stops at a red-light on Athens Road. She turns and looks at me, puzzled. "Is something wrong, Stacey?"

I should say, _yes, Erica, something is wrong. Lauren's keeping something from me, which she seems to think is funny and you seem to think so too. Now will you please tell me what's so hysterical about Mr. Prezzioso?_ I know I should be truthful. I should lay it all out and clear the air. I shouldn't build my new life with suspicions and secrets already lurking in the shadows. But I don't always do the things I should.

"No," I lie. "Nothing's wrong. I just don't know Lauren very well."

"You shouldn't - "

A car horn blasts behind us. The traffic light has turned green without our notice. Erica lifts her foot off the brake and presses on the accelerator. She doesn't finish her earlier thought. Instead she reaches for the radio and turns up the volume. "The new Skeeball song! You love them, right?" she says.

I nod. "They're great,"

"We should go see them in concert! I think they're playing in New York next month. I'll check it out,"

"My mom doesn't like me going to rock concerts," I reply, which is the absolute truth. Mom's never gotten over the time I went to a U4Me concert in Stamford and Sheila McGregor and some other girls brought wine. We were caught and thrown out of the concert. I wasn't drinking, but Mom brings it up every time I want to see a concert.

"Oh, poo," says Erica. "My mom will call and talk her into it,"

Erica and I spend the rest of the drive talking about Skeeball and their hypothetical New York concert. Apparently, Erica and Claudia go to New York for concerts all the time. We sit in front of my house awhile still talking until Mom opens the front door and gestures for me to come inside. I thank Erica for the ride, then finally get out of the car.

"What's wrong?" I ask Mom when I reach the front door. I try not to panic. The way my life has gone lately, it's likely some disaster really has occurred in the last hour or so.

"Nothing. I'm starving," replies Mom. "Where do you want to eat?"

I breathe a sigh of relief. "I don't care. Somewhere that won't be crowded, I guess,"

Five minutes later, Mom and I are in the car. Mom has to drive mine since hers is at the mechanic. I'd actually prefer Mom _not_ drive my car. She's about the worst driver I've ever known (after Mary Anne). Mom claims it's because she lived most of her life in New York City, but after all these years in Stoneybrook, I don't think that's a valid excuse anymore. A typical stop for Mom happens in the middle of the intersection. And she swears stop signs come out of nowhere.

Mom originally wants to eat at Uncle Ed's, until I tell her Julie works there now. That quickly changes her mind, even though I assure her that Julie isn't actually preparing the food. Mom and I settle on Renwick's, which is small and casual. It usually isn't crowded on Friday nights. Mom and I are seated right away at a booth in the back. Mom and I have spent the week in a lingering strained politeness. I think it will linger for quite awhile, as we tread lightly around each other. It will go someday when Mom trusts me and we both stop being angry. It's too hard to forget those emotions all at once.

Mom orders a BLT and I order a grilled cheese sandwich. While we wait for our orders, we make the same small talk we've made all week. I only tell Mom the good stuff. There's a lot more not-so-good stuff than actual good stuff. Mom enjoys hearing the on-going adventures of Julie and Trevor, but I know what she really wants to hear is why Mary Anne and I are no longer friends. I refuse to tell her. I dance around the question whenever it comes up. I'm surprised Mom figured out so soon that Mary Anne and I aren't speaking. Although, a big hint was probably that all my stories from the week involve Julie, Erica, and Lauren. Mom asked me about Mary Anne three times Wednesday night until I finally snapped, "We just _aren't_, okay?" Mom hasn't asked me directly since.

Halfway through our meal, Mom sets her sandwich down and says,"Thanksgiving's next week,"

I dip a french fry in some ketchup and nod. "Yep. Are we going to New York?" My Uncle Lou and Aunt Beverly live in New York, although we haven't spent a holiday with them in years. Holidays are usually just me and Mom. I don't remember the last holiday I spent with Dad and Samantha. They prefer to work.

"Actually, Nick has the girls this Thanksgiving," Mom replies. She says it very casually, like the possibility of spending Thanksgiving Day (or any day) with Jenny Prezzioso is no big deal.

I drop my french fry and wrinkle my nose. "Have you ever _met_ Jenny Prezzioso?" I ask Mom. Mr. Prezzioso has (thankfully) never brought the girls around on his weekends with them. He has them this weekend, which is a guarantee of a Prezzioso-free two days.

"Well, it's been a long time. But no, I haven't seen them recently,"

"They're brats,"

Mom frowns. "Stacey, I'm sure they're not brats," she tells me, although she doesn't look completely convinced.

"They broke Lauren Hoffman's mother's windshield with a rock!"

"That was Lauren Hoffman's mother's car?" Mom replies. "I didn't know the Hoffmans lived in Nick's complex." Mom frowns again.

I sigh. "Well, you'll see for yourself on Thursday, I guess. The Prezzioso girls are brats,"

"It's all right with you then? That we all spend Thanksgiving together?" Mom asks this like I have a choice. This "together" thing isn't such a fantastic idea.

But then, maybe it will be. The last time Mom invited a boyfriend and his kids to Thanksgiving dinner, she broke up with him. "It's fine, Mom. Really," I assure her. I smile and feel a little guilty.

After leaving Renwick's, Mom suggests we go to Mega Video, right before she says we need to go to the A&P for groceries. Mom knows how much I hate going to the A&P. However, she doesn't want to drive all the way to Mercer or Stamford just to go to the supermarket.

"Maybe I'll go somewhere else," I tell Mom when we get into the car.

"Where?"

I hesitate. "Well...I was kind of thinking I could go visit Cokie Mason," I reply, even though the thought just occurred to me. "I've put off seeing her long enough."

"That's a good idea, Stacey,"

Mom drops me off outside the hospital. I'll meet her in the same spot in an hour. I can't imagine my visit will last that long though. Lauren told me that Cokie was moved out of the ICU to the third floor. The third floor is mostly deserted when I step off the elevator. A nurse directs me to room 315. Outside Cokie's room, I take a deep breath, then feel silly. I didn't do anything to Cokie Mason. Why should I be nervous?

I knock lightly on the door.

"Come in," calls a voice on the other side.

I open the door slowly and peer into the room.

"Oh, it's you,"

Cokie's sitting up in bed in a blue silk robe. Her hair's curled. She's even wearing make up.

"Am I disturbing you?" I ask.

Cokie raises the remote and clicks off the television. "No. I thought you were my boyfriend,"

I step into the room and shut the door. Cokie's in a private room. It's practically overflowing with bouquets of flowers.

"You look good, Cokie," I tell her, sitting down in a chair beside her bed.

Cokie grunts.

I pick up the _SHS Gazette_ off her bedside table. "Someone brought you today's issue. Shawna Riverson did a great job," Shawna's article on Cokie's alcohol poisoning is on the front page, along with a huge picture of Cokie from Homecoming.

"Yeah, that's really how I want to be remembered," Cokie replies.

I toss the paper aside. "Have you had a lot of visitors?" I ask.

"Yes. People won't _stop_ visiting. I'm going home tomorrow. At least there I can lock my bedroom door,"

We fall silent. Cokie's the crabbiest hospital patient I've ever met. She should be thankful she's still alive.

"Are you coming back to school this semester?" I ask her.

"I hope not. Mom and Dad are taking me to Italy for Christmas break. Hopefully, they'll just let me stay home until then. Maybe my teachers will excuse me from all my missed assignments. Do you think if you almost die you automatically get all A's?"

"Uh...I don't think so. I've always had to make up the work I've missed while in the hospital,"

"Oh, right. Your diabetes. You almost died, too. I remember. Emily Bernstein harassed every kid in our grade until they sent you a card. Everyone was really worried about you. People just come to see me because I'm, like, a sideshow freak or something,"

"I know that feeling," I tell her. "People are worried about you, too. Your parents, your friends. I've never seen Grace so hysterical,"

"Grace?" Cokie looks confused.

"Yeah, Grace. I know you two haven't really been close the last few years, but she was really worried. You must know that. She's missed school all week. Hasn't she been here?"

Cokie looks even more confused. "No. I haven't seen her. She was here when I was in my coma. The doctors kept letting her in and she'd just ramble on and on. I think I came out of the coma just so I could tell her to shut up. But she hasn't come back since I woke up,"

I sit back in the chair and stare silently at the foot of Cokie's bed, thinking. I assumed Grace had been with Cokie all week. After the way she acted while Cokie was unconscious...I could only assume. I called her on Tuesday and Wednesday, but she just snapped at me. I figured it was another of her moods and I'd wait it out. But if Grace hasn't been at the hospital with Cokie...what, she's been hiding out in her room? It wouldn't be the first time.

"I have to go, Cokie," I announce, standing up. "I'm glad you're going to be okay. I really am. I hope you come back to school soon. I've missed sitting with you in English,"

"Thanks,"

Cokie turns the television on again. I slip out the door and close it softly. I check my watch. My visit barely lasted fifteen minutes. I can't wait around another forty-five minutes. The A&P is only down the street. I run all the way there. Since it's Friday night, the A&P is packed. I weave my way through the shopping carts, searching for Mom. I pass Sam Thomas stacking toilet paper and totally ignore him. I find Mom in the cat food aisle, talking to Mrs. Perkins.

"That was a short visit," Mom says when I run up to her.

"I know. Hi, Mrs. Perkins," I pause to catch my breath. "I have to go to the Blumes," I tell Mom.

"Why? Is something wrong?"

"I don't know. Pick me up after you go to the video store,"

I run off before Mom can reply. The Blumes only live about four blocks away. I'm glad I dressed sensibly for once. I'm wearing jeans and sneakers. It's pitch black out, but that doesn't slow me down. Maybe I'm overreacting. Maybe it is just another of Grace's moods. But there has to be something more. I know now that Grace isn't _just_ moody. There's something behind those moods. Something she's hiding from me and from everyone.

All the lights are on at Grace's house. I don't stop running until I reach her front door. I slump against one of the stone pillars and catch my breath. My heart pounds in my chest. I ring the doorbell. Then I ring it again. I hear footsteps approach, heels clicking on the tile.

"Stacey!" Mrs. Blume cries when she opens the door. "Come in, come in. Get out of the cold,"

"Hello, Mrs. Blume," I reply, stepping into the foyer.

Mrs. Blume smiles and closes the door. "We weren't expecting you. Grace will be thrilled to see you. She's in her bedroom. Go on up," Mrs. Blume smiles again. Her smile looks so genuine and makes me waver in my new opinion of her. She has the same lovely face as Grace. Her smiles is warm and welcoming. But in the back of my mind all I hear is her growl, _I will break your jaw first._

On my way to the staircase, I pass Mr. Blume in his study. He's talking on the phone while somehow holding a cigar and drink in the same hand. He smiles and gestures to me with his tumbler. I barely manage a weak smile. Once upstairs, I don't bother to knock on Grace's door. I walk right in. Grace is sitting in the middle of the room in a pair of black sweatpants and a neon yellow shirt with a black spider web across the front. Her hair looks shiny and clean. She doesn't look on the verge of a breakdown. She looks completely normal. She also has a reddish colored guinea pig in her lap.

"When did you get a pet?" I ask.

"I didn't. He belongs to my little cousins. Their house is being fumigated,"

"Oh. Are they staying here?"

"No, at a hotel. Mom and Aunt Corinne don't get along. Sibling rivalry. I think that's why I'm an only child,"

"My parents couldn't have any more children. My mom only has one fallopian tube,"

I need to stop showing up for important conversations unrehearsed.

"Why weren't you in school?" I demand.

"I'm sick,"

"You don't look sick,"

Grace stands and scowls. "I feel much better this evening. Thanks for your concern," she says, snottily. She walks over to the cage beside her window and drops the guinea pig in. "Want to see my new jacket?" Grace asks. She disappears into her walk-in closet and comes out with a pearly pink leather jacket. She slips it on and turns around. "Like it? My parents bought it for me in New York."

I look at Grace with a sinking feeling in my stomach. Whatever secret Grace is keeping, the Blumes have bought themselves a little more silence.

"It's beautiful, Grace. I hope it's worth the price,"

"I'm sure it is. My parents recognize quality,"

Grace slips off the jacket and walks back into the closet. I unzip my parka and toss it onto Grace's bed. I perch on the end of the bed. Across the room is Grace's trophy case, where she keeps all her tennis and swimming awards. Her Homecoming tiara sits on the top shelf. Two of her campaign posters hang on either side of the case. Everything's so shiny and spotless. All the ways Grace fools the world.

"Did I miss much this week?" Grace asks, shutting the closet door. She sits down on her window seat.

"Only the complete collapse of my social life," I reply.

"What does that mean?"

"Mary Anne and I aren't friends anymore,"

"You had a fight?"

"No. Yes. Yes, we had a fight, but it's not just a fight. I don't think we'll make up. Be prepared to pick a side on Monday,"

"What? I don't want to pick a side! Can't I be both your friend?"

"Not according to Mary Anne," I reply. On Tuesday, she told Emily and Julie to choose a side. Emily refused, so Mary Anne decided Emily chose my side by default. Julie chose me because I didn't ask her to make a choice. Mary Anne should know not to back Julie into a corner and expect Julie to bend to her will.

"Are you going to tell me about your fight with Mary Anne?"

"No,"

"Okay,"

"Can I tell you something else?"

"Sure,"

I scoot back on the bed and turn my body toward Grace. She's laying back on the window seat now with her long legs straight in the air, pressed flat against the wall. I tell her about Lauren Hoffman and her weird comments. I haven't talked to Grace very much about Mom and Mr. Prezzioso and Grace absolutely does not know about the affair. Mom doesn't need to be judged anymore than I've already judged her.

"Do you think that's weird?" I ask Grace when I'm done.

Grace looks at me and scrunches her face. "So, Lauren Hoffman's a Peeping Tom? That _is_ weird,"

"That's not what I'm asking, Grace," I reply, testily. "Do you think her comments are weird? Do you think there's something going on?"

"Like what? Like something she's seen through her binoculars? Lauren's not a mean person, Stacey. She's definitely a little creepy though. Ew, what do you think she watches people do? I hope Mr. Prezzioso closes his blinds when your mom comes over,"

"Grace!" I shriek and toss a pillow at her. "That's disgusting!"

"It's not my fault if your dirty mind twists my innocent comment into something perverse," Grace replies. "Ignore Lauren Hoffman, Stacey. She's just being weird. If there was something actually wrong, she'd tell you. She's your friend."

I nod and tuck my knees against my chest, resting my chin on them. Lauren Hoffman is my friend. But I'm not really sure how much trust I can put into anyone claiming that anymore.

There's a soft rap at the door. Mrs. Blume sticks her head in. "Stacey," she says, "your mom's downstairs."

"I didn't hear the doorbell," I reply.

Grace and Mrs. Blume walk me downstairs. I hug Grace goodbye. We hardly ever hug. I sense that, deep down, Grace needs it. Far down where she's buried her secrets, she needs some kind of reassurance. I didn't get the answers I came for. I ran all the way here with questions pounding through my mind and I didn't ask a single one. And I know that Grace wouldn't have answered them. She'd have brushed me off like everything else. She _will_ tell me. I sense it. Whatever she's hiding, she's close to spilling it. A pearly pink leather jacket won't keep her silent for long.

Before I walk out the door, I wave to Grace. She waves back and looks a little sad. I don't want to be like Grace with secrets eating me up inside and driving me half-mad.

"Is everything all right, Stacey?" Mom asks when we're in the car.

"Mom, there's some things I'd like to tell you,"


	25. Chapter 25

"Stacey!"

"Just a minute, Mom!" I yell back, covering the mouthpiece of the telephone. It's noon on Thursday - Thanksgiving Day - and _technically_ I'm supposed to be downstairs helping Mom. She thinks I'm still getting ready. Actually, I've spent the last half hour on the phone with Julie, who's filling me in on what's sure to be the _hottest_ gossip at SHS next week - and we're two of the first people to hear it.

"You can't still be dressing!" Mom shouts from the living room.

"I'm almost done! Just give me a minute!" I call to her. I uncover the mouthpiece and say, "Sorry, Julie. Mom thinks I'm getting ready. I kind of am. I'm looking through her sock drawer for a pair of black pantyhose,"

"I'm not supposed to be on the phone either. I'm hiding in the shower,"

"I was wondering what that hollow echo was," I giggle. I find a pair of black pantyhose and struggle to pull them on while balancing the phone between my shoulder and ear. Julie and I have spent a lot of time on the phone this past week. Most people wouldn't guess it, but talking on the phone is one of Julie's favorite activities. She has a lot to say (although it's debatable how much of it is the absolute truth).  
Before, the majority of my phone time was spent with Mary Anne. I guess I've sort of replaced her with Julie. As much as I still miss Mary Anne, it's nice talking on the phone with someone who doesn't have to hang up every ten minutes.

I've become Julie's first call on her gossip phone tree. She left three messages with Mom this morning while I was at an early babysitting job that Erica passed on to me (and no wonder, I had to be there at six, so the parents could drive into New York to pick up family at the airport). So, what was so important? Barbara Hirsch is pregnant. Well, possibly pregnant. Usually I'd doubt such a rumor, if not for the original source. Julie heard it from Emily, who heard it from Mr. Bernstein, who sold Barbara the pregnancy test. Personally, I don't think pharmacists should be divulging such information about customers, but the Bernsteins' motto seems to be "if you don't have a  
prescription for it, it's fair game". I'm sort of surprised Barbara bought the test from the Bernsteins' pharmacy in the first place. The Bernsteins and the Hirschs are friends and attend the same synagogue. I don't think Barbara's very smart.

"I can't wait to tell Grace!" exclaims Julie. "She already hates Howie Johnson. Wait until she finds out he's a sinner!"

I chuckle, but feel guilty for doing so. Grace obviously has serious problems. It doesn't feel right to laugh at her anymore. I sit down on Mom's bed and pull on my black boots, then stand again and cross the room to Mom's dresser. I pick up one of her perfume bottles and spray it on my wrist.

"Uh oh," I say, glancing out the window.

"What?" asks Julie.

"The Prezziosos are here,"

"Oh! You're so lucky, Stacey. You're going to have an i>exciting /i> Thanksgiving. My little cousins are in the backyard, trying to ride the dog, just like every other year,"

I pull back the curtain and look down at Mr. Prezzioso's car. "Mr. Prezzioso just got out of the car," I tell Julie.

"What is he wearing?"

" _What is he wearing_?"I repeat. "Uh, black slacks with a navy and gray sweater. He kind of looks like a goober. Why do you care?"

"I'm curious. What are the brats wearing?"

"They aren't out of the car yet. Wait...one of the back doors just opened. Okay, here comes Jenny. Oh my gosh! You won't believe what she's wearing! It's disgusting!"

Jenny Prezzioso steps out of the car wearing a lilac-colored coat. From this distance, I can't tell exactly how the dress underneath looks, but even from this distance, I know it's disgustingly prissy. White. That's all that's under her coat. A frilly white dress covered in lace with white lace stockings and white patent leather shoes. There's even a thin white headband in her perfectly curled hair. Totally gag-worthy.

"How precious. It's a good thing I'm not there. I'd probably vomit all over a dress like that," Julie says when I describe Jenny's outfit. "What's the other one wearing?"

"She has yet to make an appearance. Mr. Prezzioso's leaning inside the backseat. I can't see Andrea. I do, however, have a terrific view of Mr. Prezzioso's ass. And no, I'm not describing _that_to you. Oh! I think there's a tantrum being thrown in the car! Mr. Prezzioso's dragging Andrea out! I hope Mom's downstairs watching this,"

"This is fabulous! I wish you had a video camera,"

"I know!"

Mr. Prezzioso has Andrea tucked underneath his right arm. She's dressed exactly like Jenny. She's also kicking her feet and screaming. Her face looks like a tomato. Jenny's standing on the sidewalk, holding a white canvas tote bag and staring at my house and pouting.

"Stacey!" Mom calls from downstairs. "Nick and the girls are here!"

"Yeah, Mom, I think the whole neighborhood knows!" I pull the curtain back into place and walk out into the hall. "I have to go now, Julie. I'll call you tonight,"

"Good luck! If the brats get too out of line, backhand them a couple times and lock them in a closet. That's what Rachel always did to Paul and me,"

"You are such a liar," I laugh.

Julie and I hang up. Quickly, I grab a pair of silver hoops off Mom's nightstand, where I left them. I slide them in and check my reflection. I'm wearing my red cashmere sweater again. I've been wearing it a lot lately. It gives me that little extra boost I need these days. I also have on a new skirt that Mom and I bought yesterday. It's white with large red dahlias. I sigh. Even if the day's going to be a disaster, at least I'll look good.

Downstairs, Mom's standing at the living room window, peering through the curtains. Andrea's still screaming outside. Mom turns to look at me when I enter the room. She can barely mask the expression of horror on her face.

"I told you so," I can't help saying.

Mom frowns and turns back to the window. "What are they _wearing_?" she asks.

I stand beside Mom at the window, so we can stare at the Prezziosos together. Andrea's disappeared from sight and Mr. Prezzioso's leaning inside the backseat again. For some reason, Jenny's sitting in the driver's seat. If Mom ever entertained the notion of marrying Mr. Prezzioso, I think the past three minutes have erased that desire better than any protest from me ever could.

Mom gives me another slightly horrified look. I raise an eyebrow, but say nothing. We're on good terms again. Probably better terms than we've been all autumn. Friday night can take credit for that. I confessed everything to Mom about my fight with Mary Anne. Well, _almost_ everything. I glossed over the parts that needed glossing. There are some things moms should never hear. For the most part, I was extremely truthful. It was sort of like reading aloud from my letter to Mary Anne. As freeing as it felt writing those things, it felt even better to say them out loud.

And Mom understood, even when I got to the part about the actual fight, and the story became a bit foggy since that's when I began glossing over certain details. "I gave Robert and Jeremy head in eighth grade and that makes me kind of a hypocrite" became "I dated a lot of boys in eighth grade and that makes me kind of a hypocrite." Some guilt and blame are lost in that translation, but what more could I say? Mom was already understandably appalled by the thought of Pete and Dorianne exchanging bodily fluids on Julie's coat and Pete's later attempt to do the same on my bed with Mary Anne. Yes, I included those details. I think they provide the full scope of my objections to Mary Anne's further involvement with Pete Black.

Mom didn't completely side with me. She thinks Mary Anne and I are both at fault. I suppose we are. Mom says I've done all I can to set things right. She's impressed that I managed to be so candid in my apology to Mary Anne. And now all I can do is wait for Mary Anne and if the time comes, decide if I still want her as my friend. I think I have a long time to wait. At least my fight with Mary Anne served a larger purpose than simply making me miserable. Mom appreciates that I would confide in her and I appreciate that she remained understanding and nonjudgmental. The past is not forgotten and the road ahead is not smooth, but for right now, Mom and I are all right.

Outside, Andrea has calmed down. She's standing silently on the sidewalk, face still flushed and glistening with half-dried tears. Mr. Prezzioso and Jenny are at the back of the car, messing with something in the trunk.

"I think it's safe," says Mom.

"I think we should lock the doors," I reply.

Mom frowns at me, but I doubt she thinks it's really such a bad idea. She strides toward the front door and I follow her out and down the driveway.

"Happy Thanksgiving!" Mom calls out with a wave. She's plastered a huge smile onto her face and she's trying so hard that I almost believe it's genuine.

"Hi Jenny. Hi Andrea," I greet the girls.

Jenny grunts. Andrea lowers her head and doesn't answer.

"Did you have a nice drive from Greenvale?" Mom asks, taking a paper bag out of Mr. Prezzioso's trunk.

Jenny grunts again. "No. Dad's car smells like bananas. It's gross,"

"It does not," replies Mr. Prezzioso, slamming down the trunk. "I had the inside detailed."

"Smells like bananas to me," Jenny says, then walks away toward the house. Andrea follows her.

Mom's smile strains as they walk away. She smoothes back her hair with one hand and looks at Mr. Prezzioso. "Why are they dressed like that?" she asks him.

"That's what they were wearing when I picked them up,"

"Why didn't you make them change? Those aren't play clothes. Those dresses will get filthy! That's exactly what Madeleine wants,"

"I suppose so," replies Mr. Prezzioso.

"Hmph," says Mom, shoving the grocery bag into my arms and walking off.

Jenny and Andrea don't wait for us. They walk straight into the house and dump their canvas bag onto the living room floor. When Mom, Mr. Prezzioso, and I come inside, Andrea's tossed her coat onto the armchair and sprawled out on the floor with her barbies. After all that noise she made out front, I'd think she would say_ something ._ Instead she ignores us. It's odd how such a happy, charming baby could grow into such a plain, sullen little girl.

Jenny's standing in the center of the living room with her hands on her hips, surveying the room. She's a lovely eight year old with shiny, bouncy dark brown hair and a sweet face. She must fool a lot of people with that face. Jenny casts a disdainful look at Paddy, who's lounging in front of the fireplace. "Your cat's fat," she announces. "I bet he's going to die soon."

"He has a slow metabolism," I tell her, hiding the edge in my voice. "And he's on a diet."

"I don't think it's working,"

"Let me take your coats," says Mom, picking Andrea's coat up off the couch. Jenny slips off hers and sort of absentmindedly tosses it in Mom's direction. Mom purses her lips and glances at Mr. Prezzioso, who's standing beside me, holding his grocery bags. "Well," says Mom. "Stacey, maybe Jenny and Andrea would like to see the house?"

"No, thanks," says Jenny, flopping backward into the armchair.

Mom smoothes her hair back again. "Well, Stacey, why don't you watch the girls while Nick and I finish in the kitchen?" Mom suggests, taking the grocery bag from me. She gives Mr. Prezzioso a rather pointed look as she walks past him.

"I think it's best to ignore..." I hear Mr. Prezzioso say as they leave the living room.

Mr. Prezzioso clearly has no idea how to deal with his bratty daughters.

"What are you doing?" I ask Andrea, lowering onto the floor beside her.

"Making Lucinda into a rock star," she replies, tugging a pair of hot pink lace pants onto a raven-haired barbie doll.

"Lucinda's an interesting name," I say.

"_ All _her dolls are named Lucinda," says Jenny from the armchair. "Does your mom have a job?"

I turn around, surprised. "Yes. She works at Bellair's department store. Her job is to pick new clothes for the store to carry," I explain.

"My mom has a job too," says Jenny. "Now that my parents are divorced, my dad won't give us any money. My mom has to work for my uncle. He's a veterinarian. Dogs are always jumping on her and cats are always scratching her. Sometimes my mom and Uncle Max drive out to farms to take care of the animals there. My mom once stepped in cow poop. My mom says she wouldn't have to degrade herself if my dad could have kept it in his pants,"

"Er..." Part of me feels sorry for Mrs. Prezzioso and part of me wants to laugh, thinking of her traipsing through fields of cow pies in a black cocktail dress and stiletto heels. But she shouldn't be saying such things to Jenny. "Jenny, of course your dad gives you money. He has to pay alimony and child support. My parents are divorced, too. My dad sends a check every month."

"My dad doesn't. He spends all his money on your mom," Jenny replies. "My mom says your mom's a - "

Jenny proceeds to say the filthiest thing I've ever heard come out of an eight year old's mouth.

My jaw drops. "Jenny!" I exclaim. I clamp my hands over Andrea's ears.

"What?" asks Jenny, innocently.

"Nevermind," I say, remembering what Mr. Prezzioso said about ignoring her. I release my hands from Andrea's ears.

Jenny's face remains expressionless, but I can see something in her eyes, like she knows she's struck a nerve. She continues on, "My mom says your mom's my dad's whore,"

My jaw drops again. What is Mrs. Prezzioso _thinking_ telling Jenny these things? "Jenny, do you even know what that word means?" I ask.

Jenny doesn't reply. She's thinking. Clearly, she has no idea what "whore" means. Finally, she lifts her chin slightly and replies, "It has something to do with her being on her back and on her knees."

I don't think my jaw has ever dropped so much during one conversation. Mrs. Prezzioso has obviously lost her mind. My parents had a rather nasty divorce and I was put through a lot of back and forth fighting. Even so, I don't think Mom or Dad would have dreamed of saying such horrible things in front of me. Mrs. Prezzioso is only hurting Jenny and Andrea in the long run.

"My mom says - " starts Jenny.

"You know, Jenny," I cut her off. "I'm tired of hearing what your mom says,"

Jenny scowls, but says nothing more. Andrea and I go back to dressing her barbie dolls. Despite her psychotic tantrum outside my house, Andrea might be an okay kid. She seems slightly less bratty and argumentative than Jenny was at age four. In the kitchen, Mom and Mr. Prezzioso start laughing. Jenny's head whips around. She lazily climbs out of the armchair and walks to the closet where Mom hung their coats. Out of the pocket of her coat, Jenny slips out a small glittery pink notepad and a gold pen. She pretends not to notice me watching her. Jenny flips open the notepad and writes something down. Then she strides off in the direction of the kitchen. Jenny has a rather cocky swagger for an eight year old.

"I'll be right back, Andrea," I say, jumping to my feet.

In the kitchen, Mr. Prezzioso's holding the turkey while Mom attempts to remove the bag of stuffing from inside it. The bag appears to be stuck. Jenny's standing in front of them, scribbling in her notepad.

"What are you doing?" Mr. Prezzioso asks Jenny.

Jenny shrugs.

"Oh, are you interested in creative writing?" Mom asks her.

Jenny shrugs again.

"Here, Mom, let me try," I say, shoving my hands into the turkey (it's really gross). "Pull, Mr. Prezzioso!"

Mr. Prezzioso and I pull at the same time and the bag finally slides out. "How did you get it wedged in there like that?" I ask Mom with a laugh.

"I have no idea," replies Mom. "Jenny, would you like something to drink?"

Jenny isn't paying attention. She's not writing in her notepad either. She's standing at the back door, staring out the window. "The Pikes!" she cries. "You live behind the Pikes! Look, Dad, they have a volleyball net set up! Can I go over and play with them?"

Mom, Mr. Prezzioso, and I all look out the window. All eight of the Pike kids are in their yard playing volleyball. Mallory ducks when the ball comes near her.

"It rained last night," says Mom. "It's awfully muddy out there,"

"So?" says Jenny.

"You're wearing white," I point out.

"My mom will buy me another dress," Jenny replies.

Mr. Prezzioso snorts, then says, "I don't think it's a good idea, Jenny. You should stay inside,"

"Daddy!" Jenny wails. She stomps her foot and I prepare for an ear piercing tantrum. Instead, Jenny turns and stomps out of the kitchen.

"Maybe we should have let her go out," Mr. Prezzioso says. "She could have ruined the dress. That would have shown Madeleine."

"Or maybe next time you could work up the nerve to actually go inside the house and demand the girls wear sensible clothes," Mom replies, crisply.

Quickly, I return to the living room. I don't need my Thanksgiving ruined even further by listening to Mom and Mr. Prezzioso argue. Andrea and I resume playing with her barbies while Jenny sits in the armchair still scribbling in her notepad. She's filling a lot of pages and I think I can hazard a pretty good guess as to exactly what she's writing about (and who for).

"Girls, lunch is ready!" Mom announces, poking her head into the living room. "Stacey, make sure Jenny and Andrea wash their hands."

Five minutes later, we're all seated around the dining room table. Mom sits at the head of the table with me on her left and Mr. Prezzioso on her right. Jenny's beside him (I think maybe he knew no one else wanted to sit next to her) and Andrea's beside me.

"Would you like light meat or dark meat?" I ask Andrea when Mom passes me the platter of turkey.

"I'm not hungry," replies Andrea.

Mr. Prezzioso looks slightly alarmed. "What do you mean you're not hungry?" he asks.

"We already ate," says Jenny. "Before you picked us up."

"Already ate?" Mom repeats, her voice rising.

"Your mother fed you?" Mr. Prezzioso demands. He starts to stand, but Mom lays a hand on his arm and shakes her head. He sits down again.

"Maybe you're a little hungry," says Mom with fake cheer. "Take some food and eat what you can."

When everyone is served, Mom and I try to make small talk with Jenny and Andrea. They only answer with "yes" and "no". At least Jenny doesn't start any sentences with "My mom says..." It's not long before Mom and I give up. We talk to each other instead, mostly about the early morning sales we plan to hit tomorrow. Mr. Prezzioso looks tense and irritated while Jenny and Andrea pick at their food. The ringing of the telephone breaks into the silence. Mom and I both jump up, but Mom gestures for me to sit down. She hurries into the kitchen to answer the phone. Maybe it's someone calling to rescue me from this torture.

"Hello?" I hear Mom say, "Oh, hello... no, she can't come to the phone, Julie. We're eating right now...well, I think that even super, terrific gossip can wait until the evening...all right...I'll tell her...goodbye."

"What did Julie want?" I cry when Mom comes back into the dining room. Could Julie have found out the result of Barbara Hirsch's pregnancy test?

"She has some super, terrific gossip that she's dying to tell you," Mom replies, sitting down and placing her napkin in her lap. "She'll call back this evening. She also wanted me to tell you that her sister and uncle set their turkey on fire."

Mr. Prezzioso and I laugh.

"Can we go over there?" asks Jenny. "It sounds like they're having a lot more fun than us!"

Mr. Prezzioso stops laughing. "Jenny, you're being rude," he says, turning to her.

Jenny ignores his comment. "May I be excused?" she asks, looking at me. Does she expect _me_ to excuse her?

"Where are you going?" asks Mr. Prezzioso.

"I need to get something from the living room,"

"You may go,"

No one says anything while Jenny's gone. She returns in less than a minute and slides back into her chair. Then she opens a book and begins reading. Mom drops her fork and purses her lips. She torn between continuing to ignore Jenny's bad behavior and saying something. Mr. Prezzioso's patience is obviously wearing out as well and I don't think he exactly knows how to handle his irritation. "Mr. Prezzioso" and "discipline" obviously do not go together, just as "Jenny" and "tact" do not.

"_Jennifer_," Mr. Prezzioso says, sharply. "We do not read at the dinner table!"

Jenny flat out ignores him.

I cock my head to the side to see exactly what Jenny's reading. For the fourth time today, my jaw drops. "She's reading _Forever_ by Judy Blume!" I exclaim.

Mr. Prezzioso looks confused.

"That's not an appropriate book for an eight year old, Nick," Mom tells him.

"My teacher says I'm an advanced reader," Jenny explains.

Mr. Prezzioso plucks the book from Jenny's hands and reads the back cover. His eyes sort of bug out, then he tosses the book onto the table and stands up. He hooks his hands under Jenny's arms and lifts her out of her chair. They disappear out of the dining room. We hear the den door slam shut. Mom and I barely exchange a glance when Andrea bursts into tears. Mom and I both jump up to comfort her.

"It's all right, Andrea," I assure her.

Andrea shakes her head and cries harder. "I don't want to live in your basement," she sobs.

"Our...what?" Mom asks.

Andrea buries her head in the front of my sweater and continues to sob. Mr. Prezzioso returns without Jenny, looking more confused than before. By the time we calm Andrea down our food is cold, but no one really cares. I'm wiping Andrea's face with a damp cloth, Mr. Prezzioso's flipping through_ Forever_, and Mom's pressing her fingers to her temples when Jenny wanders back into the dining room.

"Daddy," she whimpers, pitifully. "My throat hurts."

"It's sore?" he asks.

Jenny nods. "I can barely talk," she whispers.

We could only be so lucky.

"I have some throat lozenges," says Mom, moving toward the kitchen.

"No!" Jenny yells, stomping her foot (and momentarily recovering from her sore throat). "My mom always gives me special medicine. It's grape flavored and it's just for kids!"

"Well, I don't have any children's medicine," Mom replies, testily.

"Are you sure your throat's sore?" asks Mr. Prezzioso.

"Yes, Daddy," Jenny whispers. She walks over to him and rests her head against his side.

"I'll go get her some medicine," I sigh. Anything to escape this madhouse for twenty minutes.

"Where will you go?" Mom asks. I don't think she wants me to leave her. "The only places open are Burger Town and the movie theater. I doubt either place carries children's sore throat medication."

I've already thought of that. I know for a fact that the Bernsteins are spending the day taking inventory at their pharmacy (because nothing says Happy Thanksgiving like counting boxes of condoms and tubes of acne cream).

"The Bernsteins are at their pharmacy today," I explain. "Taking inventory."

"On Thanksgiving?"

"The Bernsteins don't observe Thanksgiving. They feel it celebrates and glorifies the persecution and attempted genocide of the Native American race,"

Mom reapplies pressure to her temples. "Just go," she says.

"You don't have to go," Mr. Prezzioso tells me. "She doesn't have a sore throat,"

"Yes, I do!" shrieks Jenny.

"No, it's_ really_ all right," I assure him.

Mr. Prezzioso gives me ten dollars, then I retrieve my purse from my bedroom and my car keys from Mom's. I practically fly out the front door. Is this what the future holds for me? Is this simply a preview of my new life with the Prezziosos? There are too few days between Thanksgiving and Christmas. I don't need a repeat of today. _Ever._

I take the long way to downtown Stoneybrook. I feel bad about that since Mom's alone with the Prezziosos. But the silence is so welcome and wonderful. The Bernsteins' pharmacy is on Essex next door to Pierre's Dry Cleaners and across the street from Polly's Fine Candy. Downtown Stoneybrook is deserted. The Bernsteins' Buick parked outside the pharmacy is the only other car on the entire block. The "closed" sign is clearly displayed in the front window, but all the lights are on inside. I'm not nervous about asking the Bernsteins for a favor. Mrs. Bernstein hasn't given Emily permission to hang out with me again, but I think she's coming around. I was in the pharmacy earlier in the week, picking up my insulin and Mrs. Bernstein was...pleasant (she is rarely ever outright friendly). She asked me about school and my diabetes, then forced me to try a new sugar-free snack bar they just started carrying. Mrs. Bernstein was in a good enough mood that I didn't feel bad admitting the snack bar tasted like raisin-flavored cardboard. She didn't seem offended.

I knock on the glass door. Mr. and Mrs. Bernstein peer up over one of the aisles. I wave. Mrs. Bernstein comes around the aisle toward the door, holding a clipboard in her hand. Emily doesn't look like her mother, although they both have the same small, frail-looking frame and thin, straight nose. Mrs. Bernstein has thick, dark shoulder-length hair and glasses. She hardly ever smiles.

"Hello, Stacey," she greets me when she's unlocked the front door.

"Hi, Mrs. Bernstein. I know you're not open, but I _really_ need some children's sore throat medicine,"

Mrs. Bernstein looks at me a moment with the same straight, blank expression she always wears. She holds the door open for me. "Come on in," she says in her typical flat, dry voice.

"Thank you!"

Mrs. Bernstein leads me to aisle three, where Mr. Bernstein's standing by the lip balms and writing on a clipboard. Mrs. Bernstein stops at the children's medication and starts picking up the boxes and examining them.

"Who is this for?" she asks.

"Jenny Prezzioso," I reply.

Mrs. Bernstein makes this weird sound in her throat that might be a stifled laugh. "Oh, yes. The Prezziosos. Madeleine Prezzioso used to be one of our best customers. The hypochondriacs always are," Mrs. Bernstein opens a box and looks inside, then sets it back on the shelf. "I can't say I miss her or her screaming children, but I certainly miss her money."

"My mom's dating Mr. Prezzioso," I tell her because it occurs to me that Emily has likely never said anything. "Jenny's at my house now, yelling that her throat hurts."

"Well, if she can yell it must not hurt that much," says Mrs. Bernstein. She hands me a box. "Here, this one will make her drowsy. I don't want to open up the register, so come back tomorrow,"

"Thanks a lot, Mrs. Bernstein. Uh, where's Emily?" I realize that I've not seen her since I came in.

Mrs. Bernstein glances around, looking puzzled. "I...I don't know. She was just here. Bernie! Where's Emily?"

Mr. Bernstein looks up from his clipboard and frowns. "She was in aisle one counting boxes of lubricants," he says.

Mrs. Bernstein sighs. "She's probably hiding in the stock room. Stacey, would you please go back there and get her?"

"Sure," I reply and head to the back of the store. I step behind the pharmacy counter and walk back through the rows of filled prescription bottles until I reach the door to the stock room. It's slightly ajar. I push it open. Emily's standing by a row of cabinets with her back to me. I watch her take an orange prescription bottle off one of the shelves and slip it into the right pocket of her tan slacks.

"What are you doing?" I demand.

Emily whirls around, her eyes wide with surprise. "Stacey! What are you doing here?" she exclaims in an odd, airy voice.

"What did you just put in your pocket?" I ask, taking a step toward her.

"Nothing," she replies, but turns the right side of her body slightly away from me.

"I saw you," I argue. "You put a bottle in your pocket!"

"I did not," Emily replies with a chuckle. "You're seeing things. Perhaps you ought to have your eyes checked."

"Then show me what's in your pocket! Empty it out!"

"No! There's nothing in my pocket!"

I take another step toward Emily and reach for her pocket. Emily - delicate, frail-looking Emily - shoves me. Hard. I stumble backward into the pharmacy and fall against a cabinet. A dozen or so bottles of pills tumble to the floor. The door to the stock room swings closed and the lock slides into place.

"What's going on back there?" calls Mrs. Bernstein from the front of the store.

I struggle to my feet and hurry out from between the cabinets and around the pharmacy counter. "I fell," I say when I pass the Bernsteins, who are still standing in aisle three. What else can I say? _Better take aclose inventory, your daughter's stealing from you_?

"Emily!" I hear Mrs. Bernstein shout as I push open the front door. "Stop fooling around back there. Get to work!"

I escape from the Bernsteins' pharmacy to the peaceful safety of my car. It's funny, I thought I was escaping _to_ the pharmacy, seeking a brief refuge from the Prezziosos. Now I think an afternoon with five Jenny Prezziosos would be more welcome than the reality of what I just saw. And what did I just see? Is it really possible that what I think I saw is what I actually saw? And Emily Bernstein - smart, clever, driven Emily Bernstein - is some kind of...drug addict? The reality of the possibility slaps me in the face, as my heart pounds and it feels like all the air in the car has become trapped in my chest. I think of Emily's appearance lately, her face pale and drawn, the bags underneath her eyes that grow heavier every day. I've told myself for weeks that Emily looks strung out and now I know the reason - Emily is, in fact, _strung out_. On _something_. I laugh. I've spent all this time and energy this autumn worrying about mysteries and secrets and here's this huge secret that's been staring me straight in the face and I was too self-centered to notice it. I overlook Emily. I dismiss her because she's Emily - organized and together and focused. She rants and stresses, but over such minor things, like exams and deadlines and SAT scores. I take it for granted that she will hold herself together. Apparently, she's not doing such a good job of that anymore.

I sit in my driveway for awhile, leaning my head back against the headrest, covering my face with my hands. Too much is overtaking me. I unload one secret and another pops up less than a week later. Of all the secrets I've learned this autumn, this one's the worst, the one I least want to know. If I could I would pour it out of myself and onto some unsuspecting person. I don't want this on my shoulders. I don't want to save Emily Bernstein. Let someone else take that responsibility. I have too much already.

I eventually get out of the car. I have no other choice. I can't hide in there forever. Slowly, I walk up the driveway and into the house. Mom and Mr. Prezzioso are on the living room floor, playing barbies with Andrea, who still looks sullen and sulky. Jenny's back in the armchair, scribbling in her notepad. If Mom and Mr. Prezzioso speak to me, I don't hear. I toss the sore throat medicine onto Jenny's lap as I pass by. I get a glass of water in the kitchen, then walk back into the living room. I sit down on the couch and watch Mom, Mr. Prezzioso, and Andrea.

"What's wrong?" Mom asks.

"Nothing,"

Mom's face grows dark. "Was Marian Bernstein rude to you?" she demands.

I shake my head. "No. She was very nice. I'm tired, that's all,"

"Have you checked your blood sugar today?" Mom asks, sounding worried.

"Yes, but I'll check it again," I tell her. Any excuse for some time alone. I stand and walk toward the stairs.

"Watch out for that fat cat of yours," calls Jenny, nastily. "He probably had a heart attack in your bed."

Happy Thanksgiving.


	26. Chapter 26

It rains the day after Thanksgiving. Not a hard rain, but a slow and steady drizzle. It sets the mood for the morning, which echoes the mood of the night before. A slow and steady melancholy. I think melancholy is a lot like rain, cold and wet and streaming in at inopportune times. There are good things about rain and likewise, good things about melancholy. It's a feeling that leads to reflection. Mom and I have done a lot of reflecting since yesterday. We both know it, even though we've not discussed it.

The Prezziosos left around four yesterday. I've never been so happy to stand on the sidewalk, waving goodbye to a disappearing car. Mom didn't say so, but I know she felt relieved. Probably not happy because she wanted things to work out, for the Prezzioso girls to not be brats. So she was relieved to see them go, but also very disappointed - in the girls, in the day, and especially in Mr. Prezzioso. I could tell in the stiff way she spoke to him and hesitated when he moved in to kiss her goodbye. I half expected her to turn her head away. Mom didn't say anything afterward. She popped a couple aspirin, then carried a cup of tea up to her room. She stayed there the rest of the night. I checked on her around eight and she was on her back asleep, still dressed with a book resting on her stomach.

I think this is the end of Mom and Mr. Prezzioso.

We haven't discussed it. I'm giving Mom time since she gave me the same consideration with Mary Anne. I think if I don't press the subject, just let it run its course, then maybe the end will come sooner. On her way upstairs last night, Mom took the phone off the hook. I'd say that's a sign she's on the brink of a final break. I'm not as thrilled as I expected. I am completely thrilled in the knowledge that I may never spend another moment with horrid Jenny Prezzioso, but then part of me is sort of sad and guilty. I liked seeing Mom happy. I just want her to be happy with someone else.

Mom woke me at five this morning, making it the second day in a row that I awoke at that ungodly hour. We were in the car by six-thirty and by seven-thirty shoving our way through the crowded doorways of Washington Mall. Shopping has an empty hollowness today. Usually the day after Thanksgiving has a giddy, euphoric vibe. Not this year. Black Friday truly lives up to its name. Mom and I move through the stores like there are weights attached to our feet. Our hearts aren't in shopping and sales and fighting crowds for ten percent off brown suede ankle boots. Either of us should have backed out of today, but we didn't because it's tradition and backing out would mean admitting there are problems that should be spoken and discussed and solved. All those weights are very heavy on my feet.

Mom and I try to have fun. We make attempts at lame jokes, then laugh out of obligation. The other shoppers rush around us, red faced and excited. I hope it's catching. I want Mom and I to pull quickly out of this gloom. I want us to be ourselves again. We pass some kids from school. I smile and wave when they call out to me. I feel very fake. I almost wish someone would come up to me and say, "Stacey, you aren't fooling anyone. What has you so worried that you feel you must pretend not to be worried? Spill all your secrets until you're empty and maybe no new ones will appear to fill you up again." How easy if life worked like that, that someone could just walk up with a plan to solve everything. All the right answers to all the right questions.

Mom and I stop at Friendly's for lunch. The restaurant's not crowded like the rest of the mall, probably because it's still early, only a little after eleven. Mom and I have to be back in Stoneybrook by one. I have my first shift of the season at the Kid Center and Mom only took the morning off from work. The Shillabar twins walk into Friendly's while Mom and I are eating our chicken salad sandwiches. My heart kind of plummets in my chest and freezes there as I wait for Mary Anne to follow them. Instead, their grandparents come through the doors and the four of them sit down at a booth by the register. My heart resumes beating at its regular pace.

Mary Anne usually goes Black Friday shopping with Mom and me. Maybe that's contributing to the empty hollowness of the morning. Mary Anne's absence is a glaring reminder of all the troubles in my life. I tried to replace her. I invited Julie, but Julie claims to have already finished her Christmas shopping (which is probably true since last year she gave everyone the same book). And Grace said she'd rather pay double price than shove through sweaty mobs to save three dollars on a blouse. It's not like it would have been the same with Julie or Grace. It's not like it would have been better.

After lunch, Mom and I walk through Lear's, the main department store, on our way to the parking lot. Mom and I browse through the cosmetics and purses and spray a dozen different perfumes on each other. We don't smell so fabulous afterward, but we're laughing and it's genuine. Mom's still quiet and a bit distant. The Menswear department is by the exit and as we pass through the aisles, Mom pauses at a display of crewneck sweaters. It's brief, just long enough to touch a dark red sweater and check its tag, then she continues toward the exit. My stomach clenches slightly, as I follow Mom through the doors.

Traffic back to Stoneybrook is awful. Mom and I are silent for about the first ten minutes of the drive (or rather the creep. Traffic is moving slowly). I'm busy thinking about the possible meanings of Mom checking that sweater display. She would only buy a sweater for Mr. Prezzioso. Is she thinking about what to buy him for Christmas? Or did she think of it only momentarily before remembering that she might break up with him? Or...

"Stacey..." Mom breaks into my thoughts. "What do you think of Nick?" she asks.

I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from smiling. This is how it starts when Mom's thinking of ending things with a guy. She hasn't dated much since the divorce and nothing as serious as her relationship with Mr. Prezzioso. She finds little flaws in every man and picks at them in her mind until the entire relationship crumbles. Flaws like dyeing their hair or wearing colored contacts or pairing brown shoes with black pants or calling her "sweet cheeks" (okay, I understand why she broke up with that last guy). If Mom objected to all those little flaws, then Mr. Prezzioso's foul-mouthed sixty pound flaw has to be a deal breaker.

"He's all right," I reply, playing it cool and cautious. "He's a nice man."

"Do you think...do you think he's kind of...spineless?"

She's just now figuring that out?

"I think he's completely spineless," I tell her.

Mom looks at me in surprise. "Oh! You do?"

This cannot be news to her.

"Well...how many years did he let Mrs. Prezzioso dress him in ridiculous clothes? Like ascots and three-piece suits with pocket watches? He was obviously uncomfortable and unhappy, but he still wore whatever she bought for him. She totally controlled him." I don't add that his solution to all this was to have an affair. I've promised to not throw that in her face anymore.

Mom smacks her palm on the steering wheel. "Exactly!" she cries. "He let Madeleine run his life! He hated it, but did nothing to change it. And she's still controlling him! He can't say 'no' to her. Whatever she wants, she gets. She's ruined those poor children and Nick does nothing about that either. He just stands back and lets it happen. He is the most ineffective parent I have ever met!" Mom's gesturing rather madly while she rants, which would be scary if we weren't moving at a snail's pace.

It takes a great effort on my part to not smile smugly. I force a frown and lean my head back against the headrest, thinking of how to reply. Any agreement or disagreement could likely just get Mom defensive. Before I think of a reply, Mom plunges on.

"I knew he was indecisive. That's been a problem for a very long time. And I knew he let Madeleine get away with far too much. But I had no that he had absolutely no control over his children! That Jenny...it's not her fault. She's just a child. Nick and Madeleine have done her a horrible disservice. And if Nick doesn't realize that, then that's a problem. And if he realizes it and just ignores it, then that's a problem too. I don't understand how...I don't understand how he just _lets_ things happen,"

"Are you breaking up with Mr. Prezzioso?" I ask because I can't hold my tongue any longer.

Mom glances at me, then back at the road, then smoothes her hair down with one hand. "I...I...I don't know, Stacey. I don't want to be with someone I have to control," Mom replies with a frown. "But maybe I'm not being fair. Nick could change. He could learn to stand up to Madeleine or to be a better parent. Maybe it's not fair to break up with him just because he's bad at parenting,"

I sit up straighter and tilt my head, frowning. This isn't where the conversation was supposed to go. Is she talking herself into or out of breaking up with him?

"You broke up with John Brooke for being a bad parent," I point out.

"John Brooke?" Mom repeats. "That was years ago! And there were other factors besides his lack of parenting skills. He was self-centered. Just like your father. Nick isn't self-centered at all. John and I didn't date that long either. Nick and I, we've been together for quite awhile. It's complicated, Stacey."

Of course it's complicated. I suppose Mom doesn't feel she can just dump Mr. Prezzioso after helping wreck his marriage. I rest my cheek against the window and watch the scenery go by. Traffic has picked up and Mom drives faster than usual to make up for lost time. She still looks thoughtful, but doesn't say anything more. Maybe she thinks she's said too much already.

When we reach Bellair's, Mom walks me to the Kid Center, which is on the third floor. The store is packed. I think half of Stoneybrook came for the sale. The Kid Center strongly resembles a mini-madhouse.

"It looks like you'll have a busy afternoon," Mom observes. She pats my arm. "I'll pick you up out front at seven. And thanks for listening to me earlier,"

Guilt sweeps over me. I am still so selfish when it comes to Mom's feelings. "Of course, Mom. I'll listen anytime," I reply, softly.

"Stacey!" shouts Mrs. Grossman from inside the Kid Center. She waves to me.

I say goodbye to Mom and unlatch the gate to the Kid Center. Mrs. Grossman looks thrilled to see me. I've worked at the Kid Center over quite a few summers and holidays. She says I'm one of her best employees ever. Mrs. Grossman hands me my name tag, then introduces me to the other workers, two girls and one boy. Then I set to work refereeing a fight in the ball pit and then another fight over a tricycle and then _another_ fight over a red crayon. Kids certainly are cranky the day after Thanksgiving. Time moves fast when you're chasing after children and calming their tantrums, so I'm surprised when I look up from constructing a block tower to see Grace standing by the Kid Center entrance. She looks terribly out of place, not just at the Kid Center, but in the mall itself. She's wearing a jean miniskirt with her new pearly pink leather jacket and a pair of open toe pink heels.

"You know it's November, don't you?" I ask when I walk over to her.

"I'm inside," Grace replies.

"What are you doing here?" I ask, which I realize sounds a bit rude. "I mean, I thought you didn't go shopping on Black Friday,"

"I'm not shopping. I came to see you. Don't you get a break or something?"

I glance at my watch. It's already three-thirty. I can't believe I've been working for two and a half hours. "My break's at four," I tell Grace.

Grace sighs. "Well, I guess I could go downstairs to look at the tennis shoes," she says, looking very put out.

"Come back at four," I reply, then hesitate. "Is something wrong, Grace?"

Grace scrunches her face. "Why are you always asking that?"

There's a crash and a scream behind me. I run off without saying goodbye to Grace. When I glance toward the entrance, she's gone. The next half hour flies. At exactly four o' clock, Grace is back at the entrance, waiting for me.

"I only have half an hour," I tell Grace when I join her outside the entrance. "And I have to eat,"

"Okay. Let's go to the coffee shop on the second floor," says Grace, stepping onto the downstairs escalator. "How's your first day?"

"Busy! Insanely busy,"

"What are you going to do when Mary Anne starts?"

I stare at Grace. I'd completely forgotten. Mary Anne's supposed to start at the Kid Center next weekend. We always work there together. I can't imagine Mary Anne will actually come back now. I'll have to ask Mrs. Grossman.

I shrug, trying to appear nonchalant. "I don't care what Mary Anne does," I reply, coolly. "How was your Thanksgiving?"

"Fine. We had a huge family thing at my grandmother's house. It was a lot of fun. I'm going back over to my grandmother's tonight to eat leftovers. I'm just killing time until then. My parents had to go into the city,"

"Today?"

Grace shrugs. "They're working on some big project. They've been home a lot more than usual lately. They really have," says Grace, insistently. "I had stuff to do today anyway. I went over to Julie's. We had a contest to see who could fit the most banana cream pie in their mouth, then we wrote a song about Trevor Sandbourne on the Sterns' piano. You know, after seven years of lessons, Julie can only play Christmas carols? She's not very good at those either. So, how was your Thanksgiving?"

"Um..." I say, still trying to picture Grace Blume cramming banana cream pie into her mouth. Julie convinces people to do the weirdest things. "It was...well..." I consider lying or glossing over the truth. But what would that solve? How would that help me? So, I pour out the entire story about Thanksgiving with the Prezziosos as Grace and I walk toward the coffee shop. I'm grateful because this is one story I can tell in its entirety without dropping facts or twisting truths.

"So, I thought Mom was going to break up with Mr. Prezzioso, but now I'm not sure," I say, when I come to the end of the story.

"Hm," Grace murmurs, tilting her head thoughtfully. Before she can say anything more, it's our turn in line. The Bellair's coffee shop is small and serves mostly coffees and pastries, but there's a limited menu of salads and sandwiches, too. Grace orders some sort of fancy coffee (that seems to involve pumpkin and mocha) and I order tea and a salad.

While we're waiting for our orders, Grace leans back against the counter, still looking thoughtful. "Mrs. Prezzioso must be a rather nasty woman," she finally says. "I mean, telling her children such horrible lies! How dare she call your mom a whore!"

My stomach drops. What was I thinking? Grace doesn't know about Mom and Mr. Prezzioso's affair. I thought this was a story I wouldn't have to censor, but in my eagerness to share it, I forgot that certain details might be confusing.

"The Prezziosos are divorced," continues Grace,"Your mom isn't doing anything wrong. Mrs. Prezzioso sounds like a nut to me. Did you tell your mom what she said?" Grace's pale cheeks are slightly pink. She's angry on my behalf. I feel bad, like I'm lying and misleading her. I wish I'd never mentioned Thanksgiving.

I shake my head. Thankfully, our orders come up and we busy ourselves searching for a table. We find one at the front by a window that looks out over the store.

"I think your mom _should_ break up with him," says Grace, taking a tiny sip of her coffee. "Who wants some nutty ex-wife hanging around? Plus, he sounds boring. My mom has always said he was. Does he make you call him Mr. Prezzioso? That's weird!"

I take a bite of salad and shrug. Even though Grace is on my side, it doesn't make me happy. I just feel deceitful. And I should be glad to see Grace acting like her old self, but instead I'm only confused. I used to think I understood Grace pretty well. Now it's like I don't know her at all.

"We might go see a movie tomorrow night after I get off work," I tell her. I don't want to talk about Mom and the Prezziosos anymore. "If you want to come. We have to go to Washington Mall since Julie's banned for life from Stoneybrook Cinema." I give Grace a meaningful look.

Grace snorts. "I didn't think she'd actually drink out of the butter dispenser. I was _joking_," Grace starts messing with her hair clip. "Who is going?"

"I guess me, Julie, Erica, and Lauren,"

Grace snorts again. She gets along with Erica all right, but she and Lauren have to work at being civil. "I think I'll pass," says Grace. "Lauren Hoffman's such a snot,"

"Funny, she says the same about you,"

Grace scowls. "Oh, really? Well! Lauren Hoffman always has been rather high and mighty. Honestly, you'd think her mother was the Queen of Connecticut or something! She's a _bank teller_,"

I stare at Grace with my fork half-raised to my mouth. I set it back onto my plate. "What did you say?" I ask.

"What? Oh, sorry, Stacey. I know you like Lauren - "

"No, did you say her mother's a bank teller?"

"Yes,"

"At the _Stoneybrook_ bank? Over on Wieder Street?"

"That's the only bank in town," Grace replies, puzzled. "Who cares where Mrs. Hoffman works?"

"Mr. Prezzioso works at the Stoneybrook bank," I tell her.

"So?"

That strange feeling returns to my stomach, the one I get when Lauren smirks and makes weird comments about Mr. Prezzioso. She hasn't done that in awhile. She hasn't mentioned Mr. Prezzioso all week. I thought maybe she'd tired of whatever little game she was playing or that Erica had told her to knock it off or that maybe I'd been taking her comments all wrong. That strange feeling has been absent lately, but here it is again, twisting and turning in my stomach. It seems rather convenient that Lauren would forget to tell me that her mother and Mr. Prezzioso work at the same bank. She's so eager to talk about him living in her complex, so why leave out the bank? It doesn't make sense. It's like there are all these puzzle pieces spread out in front of me and I should be putting them together, but instead they stay a jumbled mess.

"I have to get back to the Kid Center, Grace. My break's almost over," I stand and carry my half-eaten salad to the trash can.

Grace and I say our goodbyes at the escalators. Then I go up and Grace goes down. I notice her looking at me with that puzzled expression. I guess it's my turn to confuse her. She's been confusing me the entire school year. The Kid Center isn't the mini-madhouse it was when I left. Two of the other workers left while I was on break and a new one came on. Business slowly tapers off until at six-thirty we only have four kids.

"Stacey," says Mrs. Grossman, tapping on my shoulder. "Why don't you leave early tonight?"

I glance up from the plastic table I've been cleaning. "No, that's okay, Mrs. Grossman. I can stay until seven,"

Mrs. Grossman chuckles. "Go on, Stacey. It's only your first day back. I'll see you tomorrow afternoon,"

I don't protest again. I am pretty tired. I gather my parka and purse from the locker at the back of the Kid Center, then head toward the escalators. Downstairs, I check Mom's office just in case she decided to work late. Her office is locked. I consider doing a little shopping before she picks me up at seven. I've spent the entire day in hot, crowded stores, so I decide to go out front for some fresh air.

The rain has stopped, but the pavement is still wet and puddles are scattered all around. It's dark out and the street lamps burn bright above me. Across the street, the lights are on at Uncle Ed's. The front door stands open. It occurs to me that I never heard Julie's super terrific gossip. She probably tried calling last night, but Mom had taken the phone off the hook. I glance to the right and the left, then hop off the curb and dash across the street.

Julie's seated behind the counter, leaning back in her chair, and reading a Stephen King novel. She must be losing some of her newfound self-consciousness because while her hair is still down, it's pushed behind her elfin ears and clipped in place with multi-colored beaded barrettes. At least Trevor Sandbourne's bad poetry hasn't permanently scarred her ego.

"Hi Julie," I greet her.

Julie looks up from her book and smiles. "Oh, good, you're not a customer!" she says, then drops her voice to a whisper, "I hate this job. I'm not even supposed to be here. I told this girl I'd cover her from three to six, but she hasn't shown up. I can't wait to quit."

I sniff the air. "I don't know how you can sit around smelling chinese food all day. It must get nauseating after awhile,"

"I don't know how you can stand being trapped in a tiny room with little kids. Yuck! I'm going to tell Uncle Ed I'm leaving," Julie walks around the counter to the back of the restaurant. She returns a couple minutes later wearing her peacoat and carrying her purse.

"So, there really is an Uncle Ed? And he makes you call him Uncle Ed?" I ask.

"Yes and yes. It's a bit creepy," Julie replies when we step outside the restaurant. "Know what? He isn't even Chinese! He's Puerto Rican. He's always talking about me in Spanish to his wife. He doesn't know I'm in Honors Spanish and have the second highest grade in the class, so I _know_ what he's saying about me. And you know all the waiters and waitresses? Most of them aren't Chinese either! They're Korean and they get really mad if you assume they're Chinese," Julie takes a deep breath and releases it dramatically. Suddenly, her face lights up and she grabs my arms. "Oh my gosh! I have to tell you something!"

"Is this your super terrific gossip?"

"No, but I still have to tell you that, too! But this just happened today. I was taking a phone order and in walks Mary Anne and her dad. _Without_ her stepmom. So, after I hung up the phone and they were waiting to be seated, I said, 'where's your stepmom?' Until then, Mary Anne was ignoring me, but she couldn't just not answer me with her dad standing there. So, know where her stepmom is? In California! She went to California for Thanksgiving!"

"Really? Wow. I mean, I'm not that surprised. Do you think they're separated?" Despite how hurt and angry I still am, part of me aches for Mary Anne. I think about my parents' divorce and how hard it was on me. Sharon's not Mary Anne's mother and Sharon and Mr. Spier have only been married a few years, but still, it wouldn't be easy for Mary Anne. The part of me that aches for Mary Anne, that part wishes to be with her, comforting her. I shouldn't feel this way after how nasty and spiteful she's been. Or maybe I should feel this way because she was my best friend for so long.

"Maybe. I'll keep an ear out," says Julie. If anyone can find out if the Spiers have separated, it's Julie. "If they have, that would explain a lot. Like why Mary Anne's been a megabitch lately," Julie stamps her feet on the sidewalk. "It's cold tonight. Okay, now I _have_ to tell you my super terrific gossip! Oh, it's so fabulous!" Julie actually squeals.

"Well, what is it?" I demand, not wanting to wait any longer.

Julie grins and sighs happily. "So, after I talked to you yesterday, I called Lauren. I was supposed to be helping with lunch, but personally, I feel that a suspected teen pregnancy is so much more important. So, I called Lauren and told her exactly what I told you. She promised to do some research on the rumor. An hour later, she called back. She talked to Pete Black, who'd heard several days ago from Austin that Howie and Barbara had broken up. Do you know _why_ they broke up? And it's not because of a pregnancy scare!"

"Just tell me!"

"Howie gave Barbara genital warts!"

I stare at Julie, as her words sink in. "What?" I finally say. "Howie _Johnson_ has genital warts?"

Julie bites her bottom lip and nods, furiously. "Yes! He didn't know it until last week. And guess who he thinks gave them to him? Cokie Mason!"

"He _thinks_? Good Lord, how many girls has Howie Johnson slept with?" I ask. Even though Howie once broke my heart in eighth grade, he's always seemed like a decent guy. I never would have guessed him to be promiscuous. And like with Mary Anne, although Barbara's not my friend anymore, I feel very sorry for her. I remember that horrible time in ninth grade when I suspected myself of having an STD. No matter what kind of person Barbara is, she doesn't deserve genital warts.

"Apparently, Howie Johnson's a manwhore," says Julie. "I had no idea! I don't know how he managed to keep it a secret, especially from me. Pete told Lauren that Howie lost his virginity to Cokie in the ninth grade during that school trip to Philadelphia. I was on that trip and was not aware that any deflowering was going on!" Julie cries, bouncing on her toes. She looks as if she may burst in her excitement over her newfound scandal. "I wish you'd seen Grace's face when I told her! I swear, her eyes popped out of her skull! But then she wouldn't even discuss it with me. She says she doesn't talk about such 'indecency'." Julie rolls her eyes.

"Is Barbara pregnant?" I ask. As excited as I was about the gossip yesterday, that excitement has quickly deflated. Part of me still relishes in the juiciness of the gossip, but that part is losing out to the part that feels guilty. I remember how awful I felt when Mary Anne told me that other people knew about the things I'd done with Robert and Jeremy. I wonder if this is how Julie acted in eighth grade when she gossiped about me.

"Pete's going to find out. I'm calling Lauren when I get home. I'll call you afterward if she's heard from Pete,"

I shrug. "All right," I say. I'm not that interested in gossiping anymore. "There's no cure for genital warts, you know," I tell Julie.

"They shouldn't have been having unprotected sex then. I always knew Barbara wasn't very bright," Julie replies. "Are we still going to the movies tomorrow? Oh! When you and Erica pick me up, I have to play this song for you. Grace and I wrote it about Trevor Sandbourne and how much I hate him and his lame poetry. It's really funny. Oh! And you didn't tell me about your Thanksgiving yet! Were those brats as horrible as expected?"

I shrug again. "Yes and no. Andrea's not so bad, but Jenny's a monster. It's not her fault, really. Her mother's screwed her up," I say, then give Julie a brief rundown of Thanksgiving with the Prezziosos. I don't make the same mistake I made with Grace. I tell bits and pieces of story. I hope that someday, I'll finally get to tell a story that doesn't require censoring.

"She was reading _Forever_?" Julie asks. "She might be the coolest eight year old ever! In fifth grade, Emily and I stole Rachel's copy of _Forever_ and read each other all the dirty parts. Unfortunately, we did this at Emily's house and Mrs. Bernstein caught us. She gave us this huge speech on respecting our bodies or respecting other people's bodies. Or, I don't know, something like that. I think she memorized it out of one of the pamphlets at the pharmacy,"

The Bernsteins. I shoved them to the back of my mind. I must be a terrible friend. I have hardly thought about Emily all day. I decided late last night, after much thinking, that I can't possibly deal with her problem. Not on top of everything else. My mother once told me that I can't be everything to everyone. I know I can't. If I stretch myself to far and thin, I'll break. I'm barely holding together as it is. I need to either place Emily on a shelf to gather dust until I am able to help her or I need to pass her onto someone else. Standing her on the sidewalk with Julie, I entertain the possibility of passing Emily onto her. If anyone should have to deal with Emily, it's Julie. They've been friends since they were kids and are closer to each other than to anyone else. As close as either can be to anyone else. As much as Julie prefers to ignore crises, she'd have to do _something_. Even if that something was just telling her parents or the Bernsteins. The Bernsteins would listen to her. They think Julie's fabulous.

I am kidding myself. Julie wouldn't do anything at all. Except make excuses for Emily. Julie and Emily are good at doing that for each other. Just like Emily making excuses for why Julie didn't visit me in the hospital or call or write. Julie and Emily are more alike than anyone realizes. Passing Emily to Julie would be just as effective as placing Emily on that imaginary shelf in my mind.

"Do you think Emily's been acting weird lately?" I ask anyway, interrupting Julie, who's still babbling on about Mrs. Bernstein, who despite Julie's constant complaints about being strict and unreasonable, Julie thinks is hilarious. (I have yet to find anything hilarious about Mrs. Bernstein).

Julie stops talking and gives me an odd look. "_Lately_? Emily's always been weird. Well, yeah, I guess she's been acting kind of crazy since the summer. But weird? Emily's been weird since the day I met her,"

So much for getting any kind of help from Julie.

"There's my mom," I say, spotting Mom's stationwagon sitting at the corner stoplight. I step into the street and wave my arm, so Mom won't turn into the Bellair's parking lot to look for me. "Do you want a ride?" I ask Julie.

"No thanks. My mom's working late. I'll get a ride with her," Julie replies. Mrs. Stern is the manager at the Strathmore Inn. "I'll call you later, Stacey," she says when Mom pulls alongside the curb, then she starts walking down the street toward the north end of Essex.

"What am I, Mom's Taxi Service?" Mom asks when I open the passenger side door. She sounds much cheerier than earlier. I guess she didn't break up with Mr. Prezzioso yet. "Flagging me down like a cab in New York?"

I smile, weakly as I climb into the car. "I wouldn't have to if you'd give me back my car," I tell her.

Mom clucks her tongue. I'm not sure what that's supposed to mean.

"Are you all right, Stacey?" Mom asks as we drive out of downtown Stoneybrook.

I'm resting my head against the window. "Just tired," I reply.

"You've been tired a lot lately. Maybe we should make an appointment with Dr. Frank. We don't need a repeat of the other summer, Stacey," Mom says, her voice breaking slightly. "If you're feeling poorly, you won't keep it a secret again, right? You know how important - "

"It's not my diabetes, Mom," I interrupt. I sigh. I might as well unload on her before she rushes me to the emergency room. "Julie thinks the Spiers are separated. I think I should be with Mary Anne, at least part of me does. But I'm still so angry with her for how she's treated me. And I think Lauren Hoffman's talking about me behind my back. I don't know about what though. And Barbara Hirsch has genital warts and might be pregnant. She used to be my friend, so I feel bad for her. But she was so rotten to me after Homecoming that I'm kind of not sorry for her. I mean, mostly I am. I feel like such a bad person," I sigh again. And worst yet, those are just my newfound problems. There's about a dozen others waiting in the wings.

"Oh, Stacey," Mom says, patting my leg. "You're not a bad person. It's only human to feel a little satisfied at another's misfortune. It doesn't mean you're defective or horrible, "Mom pauses. "_Genital warts_?" she says, incredulously.

"Genital warts," I confirm.

Mom shakes her head and I worry a lecture is coming. Parents love to lecture about abstinence and safe sex. (If Mom only knew about me). Instead Mom asks, "Now, do you know if any of this is actually true?"

I shake my head. "No,"

"And you heard these things from Julie Stern? Stacey, do you remember when Julie convinced your entire class that Mrs. Monroe used to be a man? I wouldn't put too much stock in anything Julie tells you,"

"I didn't hear it all from Julie. Not the stuff about Lauren, at least. That I figured out on my own. Except I don't _know_ if she's talking about me. I just think she's hiding something from me. And Julie heard about Barbara from Lauren, who heard it from Pete Black, whose sources are usually pretty reliable,"

Mom chuckles. "Do Julie, Lauren, and Pete have nothing better to do than spread gossip? Stacey, I remember what high school's like. Ninety-five percent of the rumors you hear aren't true. And that's what these sound like to me. They're just rumors. Julie shouldn't be spreading them. None of you should. This is how rumors get started. One person hears or sees something that they misinterpret and that person tells someone, who tells someone and so on and so on. It doesn't change when you're an adult either. Just last week, at the store, there was this wild rumor going around that Mrs. Hemphill was pregnant. Well, you know how old Mrs. Hemphill is. It was absolutely preposterous, but people still repeated it," Mom chuckles again and shakes her head. "Office gossip. I don't know what spreads faster - speculation, truth, or outright lies. Nothing stays secret for long, that's for sure."

Office gossip? A light switches on in my head. Mom's still talking, but all I hear is " _nothing stays secret for long_" repeating over and over. Of course. It's been so obvious and I have been so dim. That strange feeling returns to my stomach, only this time it makes me vaguely ill. All those puzzle pieces that had me frustrated earlier quickly fall into place. Nothing stays secret for long. Not pregnancies or separations or sexually transmitted diseases.

Or affairs.

I know what Lauren knows.


	27. Chapter 27

I realize something this weekend.

I spend a lot of time alone, thinking. I've always been a somewhat self-reflective person, but no more or less than anyone else. I don't know when I changed. I'm like some kind of hidden person now. I think that if I could tell just one person the whole truth, the complete truth without one lost detail, then maybe I'd be okay. Maybe I could work out my problems and regain my life and find my real self again. Just two months ago, I had Mary Anne, then I started lying to her (or I guess I was lying to her all along, in a way), and then I started lying to everyone until I couldn't even tell a story about Thanksgiving without slicing it up to serve the choicest, most presentable pieces.

That's what I think about Friday night after I decide to stop thinking about Lauren Hoffman. I think about Lauren while I eat a turkey sandwich in the kitchen and while I clean Paddy's litterbox and while I change into my pajamas. I think about Lauren so much, about how she might be talking about me and spreading gossip about me and laughing at me, I think about her so much that I can't think about her anymore. So, I start thinking about Erica and Julie instead and how maybe they're talking about me and laughing at me too. They whisper with Lauren when I'm out of earshot and that one day at school, Julie and Lauren were watching me. Erica doesn't seem the type to be cruel and petty. And Julie, she's loyal in her own way. She gossiped about me in eighth grade when she didn't know me. I don't think she'd gossip about me now.

Thinking about Julie and Erica isn't much better than thinking about Lauren. So, I stop thinking about them and just think about thinking instead. That's when it occurs to me that I do a lot of thinking now. Just sitting alone, thinking about the injustices in my life and the problems I cause for myself and all the problems of everyone around me. And I cry a lot too. That's what my life is now, crying and thinking while alone in the dark.

I do something about that, as soon as I realize it. I pick up my book bag and go downstairs to the living room, where Mom lays on the couch, reading a book. I sit in the armchair and begin my homework. Friday night, sitting around with my mother while doing homework. There are worse things. I start on this English assignment I've been dreading, but suddenly don't dread anymore. Mr. Grainer told us to write about something we miss in our lives. At first I dreaded it because I figured that was more truth I had to censor. Then sitting in the armchair, I decide to write my paper on that. Missing speaking the truth. I call the paper "Censoring Stacey", which I think is catchy. Halfway through writing it, I realize I could never turn it in. There are some things I don't want anyone to know about myself. I crumple up the pages and throw them into the fireplace.

Then the telephone rings and I tell Mom that if it's Julie, I don't want to talk to her. I know if I speak to Julie, I'll either have to fake my way through a conversation or ask her point blank if Lauren told her about Mom's affair. I don't feel like doing either. But it isn't Julie calling. It's Mr. Prezzioso. Mom might fake her way through that entire conversation. I'm not sure. I'm not sure about anything when it comes to Mom's feelings toward Mr. Prezzioso. Most of the conversation is non-specific with Mom giving brief answers of "I don't know," "Maybe so," and "You really think that?" in a perfectly normal tone. There is a lot of silence on Mom's end, so I guess Mr. Prezzioso does most of the talking. It's weird because he hardly says anything when he's at our house, but it seems like he can't shut up on the phone. Or maybe he's not saying anything and he and Mom are just breathing into dead air.

Whatever the conversation, they certainly aren't breaking up.

When Mom gets off the phone, she tells me Mr. Prezzioso was calling to confirm that Mom didn't want to go with him this weekend. I'd forgotten. Mr. Prezzioso is leaving tomorrow morning to visit his parents in Northern Connecticut. I wonder if that's a significant sign, that Mr. Prezzioso wants Mom to meet his parents. That's a big deal, right? And is it even more significant that Mom turned him down? She says to me, "I'm just too swamped right now. I'm working straight through the weekend. Plus, I need a break. Besides, you're working all weekend, too," which makes me wonder if I was included in the invitation to Northern Connecticut. Why would I want to go? Then I wonder what Mr. Prezziosos's parents know about Mom.

Mom doesn't say anything more after that. She picks up her book and resumes reading. I go back to my homework and think awhile about what I miss most. I miss a lot of things. Then I start thinking how cold it is now that December's almost here and how this time last year, on a Friday night, Mary Anne, Emily, Julie, Grace, and I would probably be sitting around in the Bernsteins' hot tub. (That the Bernsteins have a hot tub amazes me. I don't think Mr. and Mrs. Bernstein have ever stepped foot in it). So, I write about that. How I miss the tightness of our group and how we could sit around a hot tub all night not talking about anything important. I start by writing about the first time I was ever in the Bernsteins' hot tub, during the first month of ninth grade, not long after my STD scare. Emily, Julie, and I were doing an English project together and Emily invited us over to work on it and use her hot tub. I wore a red bikini with tiny white hearts and Emily and Julie freaked out because the Bernsteins disapprove of bikinis. They believe bathing suits should be functional, not suggestive. So I had to wear a t-shirt over mine. It wasn't a big deal. I remember looking across the hot tub at Emily and Julie, who were laughing hysterically over some joke only they understood, and thinking, _these are my new friends. I'm going to be okay._ I guess I expected everyone to fix me in those days, not just Mary Anne. The paper is only supposed to be two-to-three pages. Mine is five. Maybe I won't even turn it in.

I start thinking about Lauren Hoffman again.

I can't help it.

I watch Mom for awhile. She's sitting on the couch with her legs tucked underneath her, turning the pages of her book so infrequently that she must not be concentrating very hard.

"Do you think Lauren Hoffman would gossip about me?" I ask Mom.

Mom looks up over her book. "Have I ever even met Lauren Hoffman?" she asks.

"Probably not," I reply, although that hadn't occurred to me. Lauren's been to a few of my parties, but Mom usually stays upstairs unless the party gets too loud (or too quiet). That would explain why Lauren didn't know it was Mom that Mr. Prezzioso is dating, even though Lauren must have spied on them a hundred times from her balcony.

"Why would Lauren Hoffman gossip about you?"

I shrug. "I don't know," I say, even though I should tell Mom the truth. Or should I? Maybe it would only hurt her. "I'm going to bed," I tell her, standing up. "You should too."

"In awhile," Mom replies.

Upstairs, I brush my teeth and wash my face. In my bedroom, I crack my window to let a little fresh air in. I stand at the window for a bit, looking out and thinking. I stare down into the Pikes' backyard. Mallory's out there, laying on her back on top of the picnic table. She's very still. I can't guess at what she's doing. I start to wonder if she's all right, laying there so still, but then Mrs. Pike comes out the back door and calls Mallory's name. Mallory sits up. I duck away from the window, so she won't look up and catch me.

I set my alarm clock for nine and turn back the blankets on my bed. (My beautiful, defiled comforter is now banished to underneath the bed). Before I climb under the covers, I take out my English assignment and carry it to the desk. I fold the papers into an envelope and address it to Emily. I said a lot of nice things about Emily in my paper. She might like to read them, so she can remember the person she used to be.

* * *

On Saturday, I work at the Kid Center from eleven to five. I ask Mrs. Grossman if Mary Anne will start next week. She gets this strange expression on her face and says, of course Mary Anne is starting next week. Then she gets this worried expression on her face and asks why I didn't ask Mary Anne that and are we fighting or something. And I tell her yes because I'm not up to lying at the moment.

When we get home from work, Mom and I make a turkey pot pie together. At six, the doorbell rings and I know it's Erica picking me up for the movie. Mom answers the door and lies for me, telling Erica that I'm sick and sorry I forgot to call. Erica asks if it's my diabetes and sounds very concerned. A pang of guilt stabs me in the abdomen, but is quickly dulled by the memory of Erica and Lauren leaning their heads together and giggling. _At me._

Mom and I eat dinner in front of the television while watching an old Benjamin Athens-Elle San Carlos romantic comedy. (I've met them both. They aren't that impressive). I get up five times during the movie to telephone Grace. No one ever answers. Right now, Grace is the only person I fully trust. If she heard Lauren gossiping about me, she would have let me know. After she gave Lauren a fierce tongue lashing. I remember how she reacted when Mallory claimed Mom slept with Mr. Pike. Despite her faults, Grace is loyal. Plus, Grace dislikes Lauren and would pounce on an opportunity to get me to dislike Lauren also. (I said she was loyal. I didn't say she wasn't self-centered). It worries me that Grace is who I can trust the most since I still suspect she's sort of crazy.

During a commercial break, Julie, Erica, Lauren, Claudia, and Lauren's cousin (who I've never met) call from a pay phone at the Washington Mall. Mom and I let the answering machine take the call. (I think Mom actually thinks it's Mr. Prezzioso). Everyone yells into the receiver that they hope I'm feeling better. Then they pass the phone around, so each person can say so individually (even Lauren's cousin, who again, I've never met). Mom gives me this funny look, like she's wondering why I would avoid my friends, who obviously care about me. I'm confused too.

Before I go to bed, I call Grace again. She doesn't answer her personal line, so I try her parents' line. No one answers. I start to worry. Like I need another thing to worry over.

* * *

I track Grace down on Sunday evening. And by "track down" I mean Mom drives me to Grace's house and Grace answers the door. There isn't really any detective work involved. It's a bit disappointing. I used to be very good at solving mysteries.

It turns out Grace spent the entire weekend at her grandmother's house because her parents were staying in New York, working and sleeping on the couches in their offices (which is something my dad did a lot when my parents were still married, especially toward the end. Somehow, I can't quite imagine Mr. and Mrs. Blume sleeping on couches). Perhaps I was never such a good detective after all. If I were actually clever, I would have thought to open the phonebook and look up Grace's grandmother's phone number.

The Blumes still aren't home, even though it's five o' clock on Sunday night. I wonder if they'll even bother coming home at all. They'll just have to commute again in the morning. Grace has a frozen pizza in the oven, so we sit around the kitchen, waiting for the timer to go off. Grace is vaguely interested in children, so I tell her all about the Kid Center. I probably tell her more than she wants to hear, but she doesn't object, just nods and listens and makes all the right little responses, like "that's so cute" and "what a mess!" I appreciate her effort.

Grace and I take a walk after dinner. Since I spent all the time inside talking about myself, I let Grace have the outside for herself. She talks mostly about her weekend with her grandmother, which included manicures and pedicures at Gloriana's House of Hair (or Horror, depending on the source) and a lot of tennis. I realize Grace and I both stick to safe topics. I guess Grace is just like me, always having to censor herself, for fear she may slip up and reveal the thing she tries hardest to hide. Grace and I are carrying around these secrets, all my little ones and Grace's big one that her parents are so afraid she'll spill. We probably look like normal teenage girls, walking down Reilly Lane in our jeans and parkas. No one would ever see us andknow that we are weighted down with burdens we don't deserve.

When Grace finishes talking about her weekend, I bring up the subject of our English assignment. Grace also has Mr. Grainer, but in another period. Grace says she wrote about the tennis team as what she misses most because tennis season is over and she'll never be on the school team again. Grace is such a liar. She doesn't even _like_ most of the tennis team, except for Mari Drabek, who was her doubles partner. I let it pass. I start talking about my paper (which I mailed to Emily Bernstein yesterday morning, which now I think was a mistake) and the Bernsteins' hot tub. Grace and I reminisce for awhile about all the great times the five of us had, not just in the Bernsteins' hot tub, but in general. Grace sounds as sorry and regretful as I. Grace and I, we both need our friends right now. We only have each other and I'm not sure we're enough.

"We should just go over to Emily's house," says Grace, "and demand to use her hot tub."

I laugh. "I'm sure that would go over real well. 'Out of the way Mr. and Mrs. Bernstein. We are armed with suggestive bikinis. Step back! We are not afraid to use them!'" I laugh some more until it catches in my throat. "I don't want to go to the Bernsteins," I say, in a quieter voice.

"It's so cold," Grace says and shivers in that involuntary way people do when they bring up how cold it is outside.

"I never should have brought up the hot tub," I reply, wishing Mom had taken my suggestion last winter and bought one. Or that the Blumes had one, instead of just a swimming pool.

Grace reads my mind. "My parents have a jacuzzi bath tub," she says.

Maybe it's because we've had a terrible vacation and because Grace is sort of unbalanced and I'm not feeling quite so balanced these days either. If we were our normal selves, we'd laugh and find something else to do. But we're not our normal selves, so we walk back to Grace's house and change into two of Grace's bathing suits. Grace wears a plum-colored halter-style suit and I wear her suit from the SHS swim team, which is navy blue with red stripes on the sides. I have one at home. Grace turns on the jacuzzi tub, then we clip up our hair and climb in. It's supposed to be a two person tub, but I'm pretty tall and Grace is even taller. Our legs hit against each other, so we have to readjust a few times before we're sitting comfortably.

"Can your parents fit in here together?" I ask.

Grace scrunches her face. "Does your mom take baths with Mr. Prezzioso?" she replies.

I gag.

"Exactly," she says, leaning back and closing her eyes.

I lean back, too. The water's getting hot and a jet is beating straight into my back between my shoulder blades. I don't feel relaxed. My body is tense and my insides twisted. This isn't the same. I can't look for imitations and expect to feel like I used to. I can't expect not to be disappointed.

Maybe I'm not the only one searching for imitations because Grace says, "Cokie and I used to do this in junior high. We'd come up here and read magazines and drink my parents' wine and champagne. Cokie has a real hot tub in her backyard, but Mrs. Mason is always home. We could do what we wanted here. My parents are never home." Grace opens her eyes and stretches her arms out to rest on the cold tile platform that surrounds the tub. Grace never talks about Cokie. Not even after Cokie almost died.

I'm not sure how I feel about being Cokie Mason's imitation.

"You're a lot nicer than Cokie," Grace tells me, like she guesses at my thought process. I notice she doesn't say she _likes_ me better than Cokie. "My parents were so happy when I started hanging out with you and Mary Anne and Emily. They thought Cokie was a bad influence, even though the Masons are their best friends. My parents think I should be more like you. Like you and Mary Anne and Emily. They think I don't care about the right things, like my education and the future. You know, they want me to go to law school? I guess what they really think is that I should be more like them." Grace frowns and lowers her eyes, drawing up one knee and resting her hands on it.

"Your parents aren't lawyers," I say when it's the only thing I can think to say.

"They went to law school. That's where they met. My dad only practicedfor a fewyears. My mom never practiced at all," Grace replies. She wets her lips with her tongue. "I don't want to be a lawyer. My dad was disbarred, you know."

"I didn't know that,"

"I guess you wouldn't since you didn't even know he was a lawyer. It was before I was born. I think he lied or something. My parents lie a lot,"

"So does my dad. He tells me he loves me, but I don't think he does. At least not enough. Not like he should,"

"I don't know if my parents love me. I think they want to, but that's not the same,"

"No, it's not," I agree.

"You're lucky though, Stacey," Grace tells me. "You have a great mom. She cares about you and all the time, not just when she has time in her schedule."

"She's not perfect," I reply.

"I didn't say she was perfect," Grace retorts. "I said she was great."

I almost spill myself to Grace. I'm feeling very close to her, sitting here in her parents' jacuzzi tub, discussing the conditions of parental love. I want very much to tell someone and right now, the most logical person is Grace. The words are in my throat, everything about Mom and Mr. Prezzioso's affair and all that's happened since. I hold my lips shut very tight, so that the words will not spill out. I struggle with myself not to tell. Part of me wants to share this secret and have someone understand, and part of me wants to remain quiet and protective of my mother. Enough people might know already. I don't need Grace Blume sitting in silent judgment of my mother.

"You're right. I am lucky," I agree.

Grace nods, then averts her eyes to stare at the window sill. She didn't clip her hair tight enough and it's sagging to the left. I sink down farther in the tub, so that the water touches my chin. When Grace moves her eyes forward again, she rubs her right shoulder, but doesn't say anything. We stare at each other for awhile.

Grace leans back again and draws her knees toward her. Her mouth is turned down in a thoughtful frown. She finally speaks to me. "I can trust you, Stacey," she tells me. I wait for more to come, some emotional confession or tearful admittance, but there's nothing more. That's all Grace has to say.

---------------------

Seven-thirty on Monday morning, I'm standing outside Mr. Grainer's classroom. It took me a weekend of moping and self-pity to gather the courage to do this. I hate confrontation. There's nothing else I can do though, other than agonize and make myself sick with worry. Mom agreed this was best, even though she still doesn't know exactly what's going on. Mom drove me to school this morning, so I'd be early, instead of late or almost late, like usual.

Through the tiny window on the classroom door, I see Lauren Hoffman seated behind a table, conducting the weekly ASB meeting. I regret voting for her for school president. I guess if she really is a snake and a backstabber, then she's perfect for politics. Lauren's seated at the front of the classroom with Pete Black, the vice president, on her left and Katie Shea, the secretary, on her right. The rest of the ASB is seated around them in a semi-circle. Lauren looks very poised and official sitting up there with her hands folded primly on the table. She looks so self-assured when she speaks. She doesn't look like a snake or a backstabber at all.

When the meeting ends, I step aside while everyone files out past me. Lauren and Katie linger behind, standing by the table, studying the notes Katie took during the meeting. I take a step inside the room, figuring Lauren and I will have more privacy this way.

"Hi Stacey," Katie says, as she breezes by me and out the door.

"Hi Katie," I reply, half-heartedly, then pull the door shut behind her.

Lauren's busy straightening papers and stuffing them into her binder and doesn't appear to notice me. I clear my throat and she glances up, her face breaking into a smile. "Stacey!" she cries, slamming her binder shut and coming around the table. "Are you feeling better? I tried calling you."

I shrug. My mouth no longer seems to work. It won't open.

"Do you still feel sick? You look kind of pale," Lauren observes, walking toward me. She's wearing one of her wide spandex headbands, as usual, and it's black with a giant yellow floral print. Her skirt matches it. I don't know why I ever thought Lauren shared my goodfashion sense.

"ASB meetings are early," I finally say. "Does your mom drive you to school?" I'll ease into the topic, then attack.

"Yeah, she drives me in the mornings. You know that,"

"On her way to work? On her way to _the bank_?"

Lauren gives me a strange look. "Yeah..."

"Why didn't you tell me your mom works at Stoneybrook Bank?" I ask in a sharp, accusing tone. I didn't intend to sound like that. It just burst out from deep inside me.

Lauren's eyes shift side to side. Like a caged animal. Like a _rat_. "Gee, Stacey...I don't know. My dad teaches American History and Government at a high school in Trenton. I didn't tell you that either. He also drives a Volkswagen."

"Stop playing games!" I shout, not caring if I can be heard out in the hall.

I stare at Lauren, giving her a chance to come clean on her own, confess her two-faced trickery and beg my forgiveness. Instead, Lauren wrinkles her nose, as if I'm a crazy person, then grabs my arm and tugs me toward the door. "Come on, Stacey. I'm taking you to the nurse. I think you have a fever,"

I shake my arm free. "Lauren!" I exclaim, so she turns around. "I know what you've been telling people! I figured you out, this little game you play with me. You _know_. You know what my mom and Mr. Prezzioso did and you've been holding it over me, making me jump to grasp it while you laugh to my face and behind my back. I thought you were my friend,"

Lauren's surprised. She stares at me, her lips parted slightly. She didn't expect this. Lauren rarely remains speechless long and much sooner than I expect her to speak again, she says, "It wasn't like that," in a completely normal voice.

"Like what?" I demand, feeling my entire body grow hot. "Like, you weren't laughing at me and my mom? Like you weren't spreading gossip about us? Like you weren't purposely deceiving me, so I wouldn't figure out what you know?"

"I wasn't gossiping about you. Or your mom," Lauren protests without any passion or conviction. She no longer expects me to believe her lies.

"I'm not an idiot, Lauren," I tell her, then turn and storm toward the door. I pause by the door and turn back to her. I want to hurt her like she's hurt me. I want to say something horrible and cutting. I know what I could say because Lauren and I have talked a lot about our fathers. Mine doesn't love me enough, but Lauren's doesn't love her at all. He's always behind in his child support payments and he remarried without telling her and moved to New Jersey without telling her, too. She hasn't seen him in three years. I could throw that in her face and she'd know how it feels to have a supposed friend hurt and betray you. I stop myself. I turn around again and walk away with dignity.

I'm halfway down the hallway, blinking back the tears that catch on my eyelashes when I hear Lauren shout after me, "Stacey! It's not what you think!"

I keep walking.


	28. Chapter 28

I'm glad I don't have any early classes with Lauren because I manage to avoid her all morning. I said what I needed to say, but I'm not sure where to go from here. Is there more to be said between Lauren and me? And are there things to be said between Julie, Erica, and I? At least with Lauren, I knew what she knew. Julie and Erica might not know what I think and then I'd just be revealing to them a very private part of Mom's and my life. It's very confusing.

So I avoid them.

Childish, yes. Ineffective, not entirely. Erica and I don't have any classes together anyway. I rarely even see her in the hallways. Our lockers aren't even near each other. Julie's more difficult. During study hall, I'm already bent over my statistics homework (which I didn't do over vacation) when Julie sits down across from me. She tries talking to me, but I pretend to be too engrossed in the calculations to answer. Eventually, Julie takes out her Stephen King novel and starts reading. When the bell rings, I don't even walk to calculus with her. I jump up and announce I have to get something from my locker. Then I run all the way to class, shoving my way through the halls. In calculus, Julie and I usually sit together behind Grace. Today I take the empty seat beside Grace. When Julie walks into class right before the tardy bell rings, I make a big show of comparing my homework with Grace's. Julie and Grace both look at me like I'm insane.

There's a surprise waiting for me when I walk into fourth period English. Cokie Mason's sitting at her desk. Everyone stops in the doorway to stare at her before entering the room. Cokie sits straight and tall, eyes forward, pretending not to notice. She looks the same. Not at all like someone who nearly died a few weeks ago. Her auburn hair is neatly curled into loose ringlets that frame her heart-shaped face. She's wearing a pretty lilac-colored turtleneck sweater with a silver chain around her neck. She doesn't look any different than anyone else. An outsider would never know that Cokie's now a marked girl at SHS, much like Dorianne Wallingford and Barbara Hirsch. She'll pay for her mistake for as long as she lives in Stoneybrook.

"Hi Cokie," I greet her, as casually as possible, sliding into my seat beside her.

"Hello," she replies in a cold voice. She sounds like the old Cokie, the Cokie I despised in junior high.

"Welcome back," I tell her. I don't know what else to say.

"My parents made me come back," she grunts.

"We finished reading _Heart of Darkness_. Here, I'll show you what we've been doing," I tell her, opening my textbook.

"Thanks, but Mr. Grainer's been sending my assignments to me," Cokie replies, not looking at me.

"Oh. Okay,"

Mr. Grainer walks into the room. He's not surprised to see Cokie. I guess all the teachers knew she'd be back today. He makes an announcement about her return, as if anyone didn't notice. Cokie keeps her eyes focused straight ahead, not reacting to anything he says. She doesn't even turn around with a nasty comment when the boys behind us start poking her in the back and whispering about her. She just sits there and takes it.

"Knock it off," I hiss, turning around. I throw my eraser at one of the boys. It bounces off his forehead.

"Stacey!" Mr. Grainer barks from the blackboard. "We don't throw things in this classroom. Please pay attention, or else you'll be visiting Mrs. Monroe."

The boy smirks at me. I turn back around. Mr. Grainer continues his boring lecture, then collects our papers. Of course, I don't have one since I mailed mine to Emily. I didn't care enough to write a replacement.

When class ends and we're gathering our belongings, I say to Cokie, still in the most casual voice I can muster, "Would you like to eat lunch with me today?"

"I don't need your charity," she snaps, then charges down the aisle, swinging her eggplant-colored messenger bag over her shoulder. She hits a kid in the face with it. It's the boy I threw the eraser at.

Grace saves me a place in the lunch line. I forgot to make my lunch last night and there wasn't time this morning. Grace must have forgot too. She usually refuses to eat the school lunches.

"What are they serving?" I ask.

Grace stands on her tiptoes. Practically the entire basketball team is in front of us, blocking our view. "It looks like...I don't know. I'm not eating anything that I can't identify from this distance," Grace replies.

We move to the soup and sandwich bar. At least there we can make our own sandwiches. Everything in the line is completely identifiable, too. I glance around as I spread mayo on my sandwich roll. Julie and Erica are at a table with some of Erica's friends. Lauren's sitting with Shawna Riverson and their friends. Lauren tends to bounce between our new group and Shawna's group and the ASB. She calls it networking. I think it's just so she can spread gossip faster.

"Oh, good," says Grace, coming to stand beside me with her tray. "We don't have to sit with Lauren Hoffman today."

"I don't want to sit with anyone today," I reply. "Let's eat somewhere else. Come on, we'll go to the library." I pick up my sandwich and dump my tray in the collection bin.

"We can't eat in the library," Grace protests.

I shrug and head toward the exit. I stop at the vending machines for a diet coke. Mary Anne and Katie Shea are sitting right behind me. No one says anything. When Grace and I have our sodas, we walk into the hallway and upstairs to the library. We sneak past Mr. Hettrick, the librarian, with our sandwiches and sodas. Cokie Mason and the Shillabar twins are the only other people in the library. The Shillabar twins are on one of the library computers and Cokie's at a table with books and papers spread all around her, eating from a bag of pretzels, despite the library's strict no food policy.

"Did you know Cokie's back?" I ask Grace when we duck into the youth fiction section. Apparently, this is where Grace goes when she hides in the library.

"How could I not?" Grace replies, testily. "She's all anyone's talking about. She probably saved Barbara Hirsch's reputation. No one cares about Barbara's genital warts now. Personally, I think genital warts are _much_ more interesting than anything Cokie does. You know, if Barbara _is_ pregnant, I think she and Howie should be run out of this school. I'd enjoy school a lot more if I didn't have to see Howie Johnson's face every day!"

I stare at her, stunned. It amazes me how quickly Grace can go from perfectly pleasant to perfectly nasty.

"So...do you think Cokie really gave Howie genital warts?" I ask her.

"No! Howie Johnson's a liar. Cokie would never sleep with him. She has much better taste than that," Grace says, then takes a bite out of her roast beef sandwich. She chews quickly. Grace continues to amaze me. She disses Cokie, she defends Cokie. It's like I'm having the same conversation with two different people. Grace swallows. "I bet he got it from Dorianne Wallingford. She's slept with everyone. Howie's probably passed it on to half the girls in our class. The girls at this school are such morons, having sex with Howie out of pity. Sex is not an act of charity!"

"You know, Grace..." I start, then take a dainty bite out of my ham and swiss sandwich. "After Cokie went to the hospital, I thought the two of you would become friends again. You were so upset."

Grace scowls. "Cokie and I will never be friends again," she scoffs.

"Why not?"

Grace chews a bite of her sandwich, thoughtfully, then swallows. "Why aren't you and Mary Anne friends anymore?" she asks.

Grace is an expert at turning the tables on me. I guess that's how she hides her secret so well. She has good avoidance tactics. Maybe that's why she lashes out at Howie Johnson so often. She knows that if she randomly attacks him, everyone will dismiss her. No one cares about her personal vendetta against Howie Johnson anymore.

"I'm worried about Mary Anne," I admit, when I finish my sandwich. I crumple my napkin into a ball and shove it between two Sweet Valley High books. "I think there's more going on with her than...than what we're fighting about. What if something's seriously wrong? If her dad and stepmom really are getting a divorce, I think I should be there for her. I understand what it's like. And what if it's something even more than _that_?"

Grace shrugs. "I don't know. She's gone nutty. She won't even talk to me and I have no idea what you're fighting about. She says I chose your side. I didn't choose a side, she chose it for me. She needs professional help or anger management classes or something,"

It's odd hearing Grace call someone else "nutty".

"Maybe I can find out what's going on without actually talking to her," I suggest. "Then I'd know if I could help or not. Do you think the Shillabar twins would tell me? They might know something. Who else would Mary Anne confide in? She's not talking to us or Julie or Emily. Or Dawn."

"Pete Black?"

I gag. "No. I'm not talking to Pete about Mary Anne. Or anything else!" I tell her, a bit too loud for a library. I lower my voice. "Maybe she'd tell Kristy. They're still friends. It would be weird calling Kristy though. I don't know what I'd say."

Grace scrunches her face. "Why would you _want_ to say anything to her? Kristy Thomas did you and Mary Anne a favor when she decided to attend Stoneybrook Day. If she hadn't, I bet you'd all still be in that babysitting club, having your silly slumber parties and prank calling boys. Kristy Thomas is social suicide. I'd stay away from her, if I were you,"

Sometimes talking to Grace is completely useless.

After lunch, Grace and I part ways at her locker. I already have my French book in my bag, so I head downstairs to Madame Lamar's classroom. I'm early and there's only a couple other kids in the room. I walk over to my usual desk and move it as far away from Lauren's usual desk as possible. I sit down and think about how at the beginning of the year, I had a great group to work with in class - Mary Anne and Barbara and Price (ugh), and sometimes Lauren. We had fun. And all that fell apart in such a short amount of time.

Mary Anne and Barbara give me a funny look when they walk in. It's obvious how alone I am. They probably think I deserve it. Mary Anne and Barbara push their desks together and Mary Anne gives Barbara a smug little smile, but Barbara doesn't seem to notice. Her eyes are red-rimmed and puffy. I think she's about to cry again. When Lauren comes in, she walks over to her desk, like nothing's wrong between us. She doesn't move her desk, just sits down, even though I've moved her completely out of her row.

"Lauren..." says Madame Lamar when she turns on the overhead projector. "Why are you sitting all by yourself?"

Lauren coughs into her hand. "I'm sick. I don't want to give anyone else my germs," she lies.

Madame Lamar smiles. "Well! I wish everyone were as conscientious as Lauren!" Madame Lamar is an idiot.

Madame Lamar puts up a transparency of a map of Southern France. That's what we're learning now. French Geography. It's a complete waste of time. I'm supposed to label my blank map while Madame Lamar lectures, but instead I doodle in the margins of my notebook.

"_Stacey_," someone hisses. That someone would be Lauren.

I ignore her.

She scoots her desk toward mine and tosses a folded note onto my desk. My first instinct is to rip it up. That doesn't seem very dignified. I unfold the note. It's written in Lauren's large, sloppy print. It reads: _I know about your mom's affair with Mr. Prezzioso. __I've known for a long time, except I didn't know it was your mom. I just knew some guy at the bank was cheating on his wife, then he moved into our apartment complex. I told Erica and Claudia because Claudia used to babysit for his brats. I didn't tell anyone else though. Maybe I told Pete. I probably did. But we didn't know it was your mom. When I found that out, I told Julie, but she didn't believe me. She said your mom wouldn't do that and that I shouldn't spread lies about her. And so I didn't._

I glance over at Lauren, pick up my pen and quickly write:_ I don't believe anything you say anymore._ I toss the note onto her desk and go back to my doodling. I hear Lauren's pencil scratching on the paper. Pretty soon, it lands on my desk again. I unfold it, slowly, like I'm not that interested. Lauren has simply written:_ Ask Erica and Julie._ I smooth out the paper and chew on the end of my pen. Finally, I write: _I will. They will tell me the truth. They're my real friends._ I chew on the end of my pen some more, then add: _What were all your weird comments about then? The ones about Mr. Prezzioso?_

I re-fold the note and flick it onto Lauren's desk. I watch Lauren read it. She sets it down on her desk and stares at it, rolling her pencil between her fingers. She finally writes a reply, very quickly, then checks to see if Madame Lamar is looking, then stretches over and hands the note to me. It reads: _His ex-wife is crazy. She set the bushes outside his apartment on fire. She once tried to drive his car into the complex's swimming pool. She once threw herself down the stairs and claimed he pushed her. But he didn't. I was watching from my balcony. He might get evicted. Everyone talks about them all the time. So, that's what I meant. That's all I was talking about._ I stare at the note, perplexed. This has nothing to do with me! My face grows hot with anger. All this time, I've been worrying over nothing! What do I care if Mrs. Prezzioso tries to shove Mr. Prezzioso over a staircase railing, or whatever? And that was the point of Lauren's game - to get me all worked up over absolutely nothing.

I pick up my pen and furiously scribble: _Why didn't you just tell me that? Why the stupid game?_ I wad up the note and throw it at her. She catches it. I wanted it to hit her in the head. Lauren looks at my reply a long time, then starts to write. She scratches out several sentences, then finally satisfied, tosses the note onto my desk. I unfold it. All the note says is: _I don't know._ That's the only answer Lauren Hoffman - ASB president, eighth in our class, great prize of SHS - can come up with, that she doesn't know why she's mean-spirited and cruel. I blink back more tears. Why must everyone disappoint me?

"What's going on back there?"

I look up from the note. Madame Lamar is walking briskly toward me, her mouth set in a stern frown. "Are you girls passing notes?" she demands, stopping in front of my desk.

"No," I reply, sliding the note underneath my French book.

I'm not fast enough. Madame Lamar snatches the note off my desk and holds it high for everyone to see. "Passing notes is not tolerated in my classroom, Mademoiselle McGill. Perhaps, you and Mademoiselle Hoffman think you already know everything there is to know about the south of France! Is that why you felt you could waste class time passing ridiculous, silly little notes?" Madame Lamar waves the piece of binder paper in the air and looks around at the class. "What could Mademoiselle McGill and Mademoiselle Hoffman possibly find so important that it had to be discussed, right away, class? Let us all hear it!" Madame Lamar turns away and starts toward the front of the classroom, lifting the note to her eyes.

I think I might throw up.

"Madame Lamar! Madame Lamar!" Lauren shrieks, jumping out of her chair. "I don't feel so well!" She takes two steps and collapses to the floor.

If Madame Lamar were a smarter woman, she'd realize Lauren is quite obviously faking. Madame Lamar, however, is a moron. She immediately panics.

"Clear the area!" Madame Lamar screams. "Move the desk out of the way! Stacey, get out of the way!" Madame Lamar practically shoves me out of my seat. She drops the note and I grab it before it falls to the floor. I cram it in my pocket, then move my desk as per Madame Lamar's orders.

The rest of the class crowds around us, trying to get the best view of Lauren, who's laying very still with her mouth hanging open slightly, somehow managing not to laugh. I almost believe she's really fainted. Mary Anne and Barbara are the only ones still seated at their desks. Mary Anne rolls her eyes and looks rather disgruntled, as if she actually minds that class has been interrupted. Madame Lamar yells for someone to get the nurse and Jay Marsden runs out of the room. Everyone else starts yelling too. Someone shouts, "Lauren's a diabetic!" and someone shouts back, "No, that's Stacey!" then some boy shouts, "The president's been assassinated! Long live Pete Black!" and pretends to play the bagpipes with his mouth. It all gets very silly, very fast.

The upside is that Lauren wastes the rest of the class period by just lying on the floor. When Jay shows up with the nurse, Lauren starts groaning and rolling around. The nurse watches her skeptically, seeing through her act.

"Was there a test today?" the nurse asks Madame Lamar.

Madame Lamar looks shocked. "No! This is Lauren Hoffman!" she exclaims, like Lauren's some kind of saint or god. Someone should tell Madame Lamar that Lauren's just the president of the SHS student government, not the United States of America. She is far from perfect.

Madame Lamar and the nurse start arguing. Lauren raises her head and winks at me, like she's made up for all she's done to me. Like this is enough.

It's not.

* * *

"I heard Lauren Hoffman had a seizure during French class!" Emily cries when she walks into seventh period statistics. This is the first time I've seen her since Thanksgiving. I'm surprised by how uncharacteristically jolly she seems. Maybe she and Grace are on the same drugs that keep their behavior loopy and erratic.

"Oh, she did not!" Mary Anne exclaims from her seat beside Howie Johnson. "Lauren and Stacey were just trying to get out of trouble for passing notes. They wasted the entire period!"

"You don't even like French class!" I snap, not turning around.

Mary Anne ignores me. "Lauren and Stacey think they have a right to take up an entire class period with their immaturity. It's so like them," Mary Anne says, nastily. I don't even know who she's talking to.

I turn around and glare at her. I regret ever feeling sorry for her. Maybe Howie will give her genital warts next.

"What's Mary Anne's problem?" Emily whispers.

"Apparently, she forgot to remove the stick from her butt this morning," I reply, taking out my homework. "As usual."

"Hmm," says Emily, cocking her head to the side.

"We need to talk, Emily," I blurt out. So much for staying away from Emily's problem.

"Hmm?" Emily says again. She flips to a fresh page in her notebook and starts copying down the new homework assignment. "I'm busy," she says.

"We need to talk," I repeat, a bit more forcefully.

"I said, I'm busy," Emily says, testily.

I don't push any further. I'm just not up to it. I take out a piece of paper and write the date at the top. When Miss Everhart starts going over the homework, I raise my hand to ask questions I already know the answers to. Mary Anne probably thinks I'm wasting more class time. I guess I am. It's easier having something to concentrate on and at least it's stuff I already know. If Miss Everhart gets around to teaching new material, I don't think I'll absorb any of it. It's been too long of a day.

Emily has her bag packed before the final bell rings. She jumps up and rushes out as soon as it does. Miss Everhart's still talking when Emily flies out the door. I guess I killed Emily's good mood. Since it's Monday, I have a Math Club meeting. I blow it off. I don't even tell Miss Everhart. I just leave the classroom without a word or excuse. I get my books and parka out of my locker, then begin the walk home. I could find a ride, probably with Grace, but riding in a car with anyone, especially Grace, isn't appealing at the moment.

I'm halfway down Magnolia Lane when I hear someone behind me on a bike. I step onto the curb, so they can pass. Instead, they slow beside me. It's Julie.

"So," she says, without any greeting. "Barbara Hirsch isn't pregnant. I found out yesterday from Mr. Bernstein. Mrs. Hirsch called him to ask what he thought of birth control methods for teenagers! Can you imagine? I'd die! I guess Mrs. Hirsch found Barbara's pregnancy test. It was negative. Barbara still has genital warts though. Mr. Bernstein confirmed it."

I look at Julie in astonishment. She has to know I've been avoiding her. And yet, she just rides up on her bike and starts a conversation like it's a continuation of one we've had all day. "You and Mr. Bernstein certainly talk about teen pregnancies and genital warts a lot. You and Lauren should add him to your little gossip phone tree," I tell her.

"He's a pharmacist. It's his job to talk about teen pregnancies and genital warts,"

"I don't think it's his job to talk about his customers' teen pregnancies and genital warts,"

"Now you sound like Mrs. Bernstein. Not in a good way either,"

I can't imagine there's a good way to sound like Mrs. Bernstein.

"I talked to Lauren," Julie says. "I wish I were in French. The most exciting thing that's happened in Honors Spanish is when Rick Chow ate a pound of flan and threw up in Senor Bertram's ficas."

"I'm sure Lauren's real proud of herself," I reply, coldly.

"Not really. You don't know Lauren very well, Stacey. I've known her for ten years. I can't say I know her very well either. Like, I don't understand her. She does things, Stacey, that she doesn't really mean. She's good at screwing things up. You have to sort of learn to roll with it. She didn't mean to hurt you, Stacey. Lauren gets wrapped up in these weird mind games of hers and has a hard time stopping. She takes them too far. After awhile, you catch on and turn her around before she gets out of control,"

"You and Erica did a bang up job at that this time," I tell her, shifting my book bag to my left shoulder. "Thanks for giving me the heads up now, Julie. You've been real helpful. But I don't think I can shelve my emotions like you do."

"That's not fair, Stacey. Erica and I told Lauren to back off. And she did, didn't she? It's not like you're the only one who's ever been screwed over by Lauren Hoffman. So, she baited you with dumb comments about Mr. Prezzioso, who you claim to not even like. Who cares? Big deal! In third grade, Lauren convinced me to shove Emily out of my treehouse. Emily broke her arm in two places. In second grade, Lauren convinced Grace to steal one of Mr. Blume's antique rifles and they nearly blew off Mrs. Blume's head. And in fifth grade, Lauren threw herself in front of Mr. Gray's car and made him think he ran her over. You're not so special, Stacey,"

"I can't believe you kept all that to yourself all this time, Miss Gossip," I say, snappishly. I'm not sure why I'm upset with Julie. I'm not sure why she seems upset with me.

"I don't gossip about my friends, Stacey,"

"Just everyone else,"

"Yes. That's right. Someone has to keep the rumor mill running,"

"You're doing a fabulous job, too. Your mouth never stops,"

Julie looks at me with a dropped jaw. I don't know why I said that. I should be better at censoring myself now.

"You're not mad at me, Stacey," Julie tells me, when she's over her shock. "You're just mad. I forgive you. You should give Lauren another chance. She's not so bad. People change, you know. We all have our slip ups," Julie pedals off without a goodbye or backwards glance. When she's across Timberline Court, she shouts, "And I won't tell anyone about your mom!" then disappears around the corner.


	29. Chapter 29

After Julie rides away, I continue the walk home alone. I don't know if I have a right to my anger or if I'm just falling into old patterns of childish arguments and grudges. I don't want to be Selfish Stacey again, just as I don't want to be Boy-Crazy Stacey. I want to be Happy Stacey or at least, Content Stacey. Every time I think I find her, she disappears again. 

I almost call Mom when I get home. I'm dialing her work number and realize she'll want some kind of explanation about Lauren. She'll ask if I've straightened it all out and I don't think I have. I know what Lauren told me and maybe I believe her. Beyond that, I have no answers. Lauren's not made it up to me. Her excuses and performance don't void out my hurt feelings. It's not enough right now, it might be enough later. Or not. 

I slice up an apple and take it into the living room, where I turn on the t.v. It doesn't matter what's on. Paddy's on the couch and I pull him onto my lap and stroke his brown fur. He purrs for me. When I finish my apple, I turn off the t.v. and move Paddy back to his favorite spot. I need some fresh air. I put on my white parka and go outside to the garage to retrieve my bike. I've finally fixed the flat tire. I ride up and down Elm Street, to the far end where Erica lives, then back to my own house, then round the corner to Slate Street. I ride past the Pikes' house, very fast, so I don't have to speak to Nicky, who's hiding underneath Mrs. Pike's station wagon. 

I ride around for about twenty minutes and finally end up on Rosedale Road. I pass the Sterns' house, but no one's outside. I hear someone in the backyard though, hitting the tetherball, shoes scuffing back and forth on the concrete. I cross the street and stop in front of the Bernsteins' house. The lights are on and Emily's bedroom window is partly open. I don't think I meant to come here. 

Luckily, the Bernsteins' cleaning lady answers the door. Emily probably would have shut it in my face. Or not answered at all. I hang my parka in the hall closet like Mrs. Bernstein always insists, then walk up the stairs to Emily's room. Her door is shut. I listen for a moment. All I hear is the scratching of pencil on paper. I knock. I hear Emily push her chair away from the desk and her footsteps approaching the door. She probably assumes I'm the cleaning lady. 

"I don't need...oh, Stacey," Emily says, flatly, when she opens the door. She's dressed in the same clothes that she wore to school, navy slacks and a white blouse. She's wearing her fake pearl necklace and earrings. Her light brown hair is neat and wavy. She looks like normal Emily, the same Emily who's been one of my closest friends throughout high school. Stable, sensible Emily Bernstein. I know her appearance is deceiving. She's not the same Emily anymore. 

"We need to talk," I say, shoving past her into the room. 

"I'm busy," Emily says, edgily, shutting the door. "Look at all I have to do," she tells me, gesturing to her desk. It's covered in neat, even stacks of books and papers and folders. "I have an editorial to write, five articles to edit, three pages of math, two pages of chemistry, a three page essay on the second amendment, and a critical analysis paper on _An American Tragedy_, which I haven't even finished reading. At least that's not due until Thursday. So, you see, Stacey, I'm much too busy to talk. I almost regret taking so many Honors classes. I have English, chemistry, statistics, government..." Emily ticks each class off on her fingers. "I'm grateful Mom convinced me not to do French this year. She's right, my Hebrew classes are much more important. My uncle - " 

"Emily!" I exclaim. I can't take her babbling anymore. She can't talk me out of her room and out of her life. 

"Yes, Stacey?" 

I don't have a reply. I never think things through before jumping into these conversations. For hating confrontation so much, I should come more prepared. 

"We need to talk about Thanksgiving, Emily," I finally say. 

Emily nods and sits down at her desk. She turns the chair to face me. "Oh, yes. My mother wanted me to remind you that you never came back to pay her. She's not mad, don't worry. You can leave the money with me, if you like." 

Emily's even better at stalling and avoiding than Grace. She must know I'm unprepared. She thinks I'm no match for her. She might be right. "That's...that's not what I meant, Emily," I say. 

"Oh?" Emily raises an eyebrow. "I don't know what you mean then." 

"Emily! You know what I mean! Stop playing games! I'm so sick of games!" 

A strange look passes over Emily's face, but only for a moment, then she regains her usual composure. She glances at her wristwatch and sighs. I'm losing her. 

"I want to know what's going on, Emily," I tell her. I try to sound grave and firm. "I want to know why you're stealing drugs. If you don't tell me, I'll...I'll tell your parents!" 

Emily's head snaps up. "You wouldn't!" she screeches. 

"I would! I will! I'll ride my bike over there right now!" 

"They won't believe you!" Emily cries, eyes flashing with panic. It's odd how quickly her appearance alters. In an instant, she's no longer the old Emily. Instead, she has the stressed, desperate look of the Emily I've come to know. "You know what?" she shouts. "Tell them! Go ahead! Not only will they not believe you, they won't care! I'm not taking anything dangerous! I could get a prescription for it, easily. I just don't have the time. And my parents would approve. They'd think it's an excellent idea! I can stay up later, I can work harder, I can do _everything_." 

"Then why are you hiding it?" I ask. 

Emily's silent. She doesn't have an answer. She thinks she's two steps ahead of me, but I'm catching up. I'm on to her. She knows it. 

"My parents are busy, too," she says finally. "Did you know Hanukkah's coming up?" 

"Hanukkah's not for another - " I start, then catch myself. She's not fooling me. Not anymore. "Emily, I care about you. You're my friend. I'm worried." 

"I'm fine, Stacey. Really," 

"You're not fine, Emily. You look terrible. You look like you haven't slept in a week. You run around school like a crazy person. You don't talk to anyone. Your mood is all over the place, although you're mostly a total crab. You can't believe what you're doing is healthy, not really. These drugs aren't helping you. They're destroying you. They've made you a liar and a thief," 

Emily stares at me, absorbing all I've said. At first, I think she might cry. Her face sort of crumples, then just as quickly, turns to a look of rage. "Who are you to judge me?" she screams. "Who are you to tell me how to run my life? This is none of your business! You don't understand! You don't understand at all!" Emily really starts to cry now, hot and fast tears. "It's so easy for you. You can be average or mediocre and it doesn't matter. All of you - you and Julie and Grace and Mary Anne. Your parents will still love you. They don't weigh your worth in accomplishments and medals. I have to be the best. The best at everything." 

"We all work hard, Emily. We all try our best. Our parents know that. So do yours," 

Emily shakes her head. "You may work hard, but I have to work ten times harder. Your best may be good enough for your mom, but it isn't for mine. And you can fail and it's okay. I can never fail. I can never slip up, even a little. I'm tied for first in the class with Alexander Kurtzman and Bea Foster. I can't risk losing that. Alexander and Bea might lose their focus and slip, then I could be number one all by myself! So, I can't stop, Stacey." 

"Is it really worth it, Emily? Endangering your health? Sacrificing everything just to be some number on a transcript?" I ask, starting to feel empty and deflated. Nothing I say will change anything. My arguments don't matter. Emily sees only her side. 

"It may seem silly to you, Stacey..." Emily begins, wiping her eyes with a tissue. She's not crying anymore. She looks embarrassed. Emily's only cried in front of me a handful of times. Usually, she keeps her emotions bottled up and locked away, like Julie. Emily doesn't want to be seen as anything but strong. I wish she saw herself more clearly. She's made herself fragile and weak and doesn't even realize. 

"You need to stop taking those pills," I tell her. 

"Oh, I will. It's not forever, Stacey. Georgetown sends its early-admissions letters in December. If I get in, I'll be able to relax. My parents will back off, too. They'll be so relieved. So will I. I won't have to try so hard to please them. I'll stop taking the pills then, Stacey. I promise," Emily smiles, like she means it. Maybe she thinks she does. 

"All right, Emily," I reply, walking toward the door. Emily will never stop. There will always be a reason, an excuse. It doesn't matter if she gets into Georgetown or not. She'll always have something to prove. 

"I'll see you at school tomorrow," Emily says, holding the door open for me. "We'll eat lunch together!" 

I nod. I can't think of anything to say. Downstairs, I retrieve my parka from the closet. The Bernsteins' mail is sitting on the foyer rug in an untidy pile. The mailman must have just delivered it. The corner of my letter peeks out from beneath a flyer for Pizza Express. I pick it up and slide it into my pocket. It was silly to ever send it. 

I ride my bike around for awhile more. Twice, I almost head toward downtown to see the Bernsteins. I don't know what to do. Emily has me all mixed-up inside. As if I weren't mixed-up enough already. I don't want Emily to become lost in the disordered drama of my life. I can't help her. I don't have the strength to do more than I've already done. 

It's getting dark when I finally ride home. Mom's station wagon is in the garage. It's later than I realized. I hope Mom isn't worried. Mr. Prezzioso's car is parked along the curb. I roll my eyes, then wheel my bike into the garage. I'm halfway up the porch steps when a voice stops me, loud and angry. 

"I am not spineless!" 

I step back off the porch, startled. I'm trying to figure out who's yelling and where from when I hear Mom shriek, "Yes, you are!" and realize the first voice was Mr. Prezzioso. Their voices are coming from the living room. The curtains are drawn though, so I can't see them. I look around, hoping the neighbors can't hear. 

"I am not spineless!" Mr. Prezzioso bellows again. I've never heard him raise his voice so loud. 

"Yes, you are!" Mom shrieks again. I wonder if this is going to be the entire fight, just them screaming the same two sentences back and forth. When my parents fought before the divorce, their fights were vicious and nasty. It figures that Mr. Prezzioso would even be dull in an argument. 

"I am not spineless!" Mr. Prezzioso shouts for the third time. 

"Yes, you are!" Mom shrieks back. 

So, they _are_ just going to scream the same two sentences back and forth. If they're breaking up, it's going to take forever. Or at least until one of them loses their voice. I can't stand out here all night. I walk around the side of the house to the backyard. I'll go inside through the kitchen and up the back stairs to my bedroom. Mom and Mr. Prezzioso can continue their lame fight without even knowing I'm home. 

As soon as I round the corner into the backyard, I come to an abrupt halt. Mallory Pike's laying on the picnic table again, flat on her back. I listen carefully. Mom and Mr. Prezzioso's voices don't carry this far. Mallory won't know they're fighting. It's embarrassing, sort of like how it was when Mom and Dad used to have screaming matches in our old apartment. I wonder if it's self-centered of me to be embarrassed. 

Mallory hasn't noticed me. She's laying very still again. I can barely see the slight rise in her chest when she breathes. As drained as I am from the day, curiosity gets the better of me. I march over to the fence. 

"What are you doing?" I demand. 

Mallory turns her head toward me, then sits up. She's chewing a piece of gum. She snaps it. "Thinking," she replies, simply. We haven't spoken since our fight in the bathroom. It's weird talking to her again. 

"Where's your cigarette?" I ask. 

Mallory crosses her legs, so she's sitting indian-style on top of the picnic table. She shrugs. "Mom and Dad are making me quit," she says. 

"I thought your parents don't care what you do. Too many kids and all," I say. There's a slight nastiness in my tone. I thought I was through being angry with Mallory. 

"Oh...well...they thought it was a phase I'd grow out of. I guess I didn't grow out of it fast enough. Adam and Byron have to quit, too," Mallory tells me, then snaps her gum a couple more times. "Did you hear about your friend Barbara?" she asks. 

"She's not my friend," 

"Oh...well, she has genital warts, you know? That she got from Howie Johnson? Someone called Mom about it yesterday. A lot of parents are pretty hysterical over it. I guess a bunch of kids are getting tested now. Mom made me an appointment for Wednesday. I told her I can't have a STD since I've only been with Ben. We haven't even had sex yet. Just oral sex. That's not a big deal. I told Mom that. She cried," 

I fold my arms tight across my chest. It's darker and colder now. "I thought your parents didn't care if you had oral sex. They said at least you couldn't get pregnant that way," 

Even in the dim combined light of my patio lights and the Pike's patio lights, I can see Mallory blush. "Oh...well...they didn't actually say that...not exactly. I lied to you," 

I should have guessed. How stupid I used to be, believing everyone's lies. "Why would you lie to me?" I ask. Surprisingly, I don't sound angry at all. I guess I'm not. I'm not even that disappointed. 

"I don't know," 

She's the second person today to use that reason. What a weak excuse. I turn and start to walk away. "Don't worry too much about it, Mallory," I call over my shoulder. "All anyone does is lie to me." 

Mallory doesn't reply. She just lets me walk away and slip into the house. The light is on in the kitchen. There's an open carton of milk and unwrapped block of cheese sitting on the counter, like Mom was about to start dinner when Mr. Prezzioso came over. They're still fighting in the living room, but not screaming and shrieking anymore. Their voices are still raised loud enough for me to hear every word clearly. 

"I can't believe you're still bringing this up!" Mr. Prezzioso shouts. 

"Why shouldn't I? It proves you have no spine!" Mom shouts back. 

At least the fight has progressed somewhat. I pour a glass of milk and start slicing the cheese, then open a bag of wheat rolls. I make a cheese sandwich, then carry my plate and glass to the dining room and up the back stairs. Mom and Mr. Prezzioso don't see me. I sit down in the middle of the stairs and listen. 

"You wouldn't even choose me!" Mom is yelling. Finally, the fight's getting interesting. "You wouldn't leave Madeleine for me! You stalled and stalled. You were too spineless to leave her! She had to leave you!" 

"I did choose you! She wanted me back, but I chose you! She still wants me back, but I still choose you. You're the one I want!" 

I gag and take a bite of my sandwich. I hope Mom doesn't fall for that. 

"That's not enough for me, Nick! I can't do this anymore! I can't be with someone I don't respect!" 

The entire house falls silent. 

I can barely hear him when Mr. Prezzioso asks, "Are you breaking up with me?" 

More silence. My mouth goes dry. It's an effort to swallow the bite of my sandwich. I hold my breath. This is it. 

"I don't know," Mom replies. 

What? 

She doesn't _know_? 

"That's not an answer!" Mr. Prezzioso shouts. 

"It's the best answer I can give you!" Mom exclaims. She starts crying. I suddenly feel sick and guilty. I shouldn't take such delight in their fighting. Or breaking up. Or whatever they're doing. I don't want Mom to be hurt. I don't want her to cry. 

I stand and walk quietly up to my room. I leave the door ajar, so I can still listen. I lay down on my bed. If Mom and Mr. Prezzioso are still arguing, their voices don't carry up the stairs. But I don't think they're saying anything. All I hear is Mom crying. I watch the red lighted numbers on my alarm clock. I wait five minutes, then roll off the bed and tiptoe into the hallway. I look down over the front stairs. Mom and Mr. Prezzioso are standing in the center of the living room. Mom's face is buried in Mr. Prezzioso's shirt, muffling her sobs. She's clutching his suit jacket so tightly her knuckles are white. He's stroking her hair. Neither of them say anything. Did they break up? I don't understand at all. 

I go back to my bedroom. This time I shut the door. I lay on my bed again, turning on the lamp. I mean to take out my reading assignment for English. I don't. Instead I just lay on the bed. Downstairs, the front door shuts. It doesn't slam, but shuts so quietly I wouldn't hear it if I weren't listening for it. Mom comes upstairs. Her footsteps are slow and heavy. She shuts her bedroom door. I wonder if I should go to her and comfort her like I did after her fights with Dad. I decide against it. Mom might prefer not knowing that I heard. I feel horrible for eavesdropping. I wouldn't want anyone listening in on something so private. 

After a few more minutes, I get up and start my homework. No matter how terrible the day has been, I still have to do it. My grades can't fall apart just because everyone around me is. I open my chemistry book and copy down problem one. I pause and listen, then push away from my desk. I crack my door and listen again. The bath tub is running in Mom's room. I go back to my homework. I'm in the middle of problem nine when the telephone rings. I sigh and reach for the phone. It's probably Mr. Prezzioso. 

"Hello?" I say into the receiver. 

Silence. 

"Hello?" I repeat. 

"Stacey?" 

"Grace?" 

"Can you come over?" Grace asks in a funny, strangled voice. "I just had a big fight with my parents." 

"You want me to come over _there_?" I reply. Usually people want to leave the house after fighting with their parents. 

"My parents aren't home. They're still in the city," Grace explains. "We fought over speakerphone." 

"Oh...well, I guess I can come over," I say, even though I'm not sure how much more of anyone or anything I can take. 

"Good because I want to tell you something," 

Grace hangs up without saying goodbye. I stare at the receiver. She wants to tell me something? Is this it? Has Grace finally snapped and is ready to spill herself to me? I might snap myself. But I'll go. Out of curiosity or loyalty, I'm not sure. Maybe both. 

I knock on Mom's door. "Mom?" I call out, softly. I try the doorknob. It's locked. 

"I'd like to be alone, please," Mom answers. 

"I have to go over to Grace's for awhile. For homework. Can I take my car?" 

There's a long pause. "I guess," Mom says. "Don't stay too late." 

"I won't," 

It's freezing inside my car. I start the engine and immediately turn on the heater. I shiver as I back out. It takes awhile to warm up, but by the time I reach Locust Avenue I'm almost too hot. I park in front of Grace's house and run up the front walk. The lights in the foyer and Grace's bedroom appear to be the only ones on. I ring the bell three times in a row, then open the door. Normally, I'd never walk into anyone's house like this, but I have a feeling Grace doesn't plan to come downstairs. When I get upstairs, I turn on the hall light, so I can see my way to Grace's room. Her door is part way open. I peer in and gasp. 

Grace's bedroom is completely destroyed. Her trophy case lays shattered on the floor. Most of the trophies are broken. All the posters and photos have been ripped off the walls and lay in shreds on top of the broken glass. The glass figurines and dolls that once sat on Grace's shelves have been knocked to the floor. Clothes are strewn everywhere. Even the dresser drawers are thrown around the room. Grace's princess phone is smashed on her night table. 

I stay frozen in the doorway, my mouth gaping in horror. Has Grace truly lost her mind? 

Grace storms out of the closet, arms piled high with coats and dresses. Her face is streaked with black eyeliner and mascara and dried tears. Her long red hair, usually so precisely styled, is loose and wild. Grace looks like a madwoman. 

She dumps the coats and dresses in the middle of the floor. "I'm burning all this," Grace tells me. "Everything. You can take what you want. I'm burning everything else. That will show my parents!" 

"I hardly think arson is the right answer," I reply, finding my voice. 

"Oh, you don't know anything," Grace snaps, marching back into the closet. 

"What did you fight with your parents about?" I ask, stepping over a large shard of glass. 

Grace comes out of the closet, empty handed. There's a peculiar expression on her face. She stares at me. It's an odd, unsettling stare. I shift from foot to foot self-consciously. 

"I want to tell you something," Grace says. 

"All right..." 

"You have to promise never to tell anyone. _Ever_," Grace's voice breaks. She swallows. "I trust you, Stacey." 

A knot forms in my stomach. It tightens. "I'll never tell, Grace," I promise. 

"You can never tell," Grace repeats. 

"I won't tell, Grace. I promise I won't," I tell her. I hope I can keep that promise. I want to believe I can. 

Grace bursts into tears. She's the third person I've watched cry today. Grace covers her face with her hands. I don't move to comfort her. I stay where I am, the shattered trophy case and piles of clothes between us. The knot in my stomach tightens even more. This isn't some silly little secret. 

"I've tried so hard, Stacey, I really have. I've tried to become a good person. I've tried to make up for what I've done. Nothing erases it. It never goes away. It's with me in the morning when I wake and all throughout the day and it's still with me even when I sleep. It's in my dreams. And the worst part, Stacey, is I don't know if I feel so horrible because of what I've done, or if I'm just so afraid of being found out," 

Grace lowers her hands and stares at me. I don't know if she expects me to reply. Even if I knew what to say, I couldn't say it. My throat has closed around my voice. 

"That's why you can never tell, Stacey. If anyone knew what we've done...we'd all go to prison. Me, my parents, everyone. This isn't my secret alone. It's not my secret to tell. But I have to tell someone or else I might go mad," Grace breathes in and out, then raises her hands to her head, grasping her hair. She closes her eyes, takes another breath, then shouts, "The summer after eighth grade...Cokie, Kristy, Abby, and I...we ran over Howie Johnson!" 


	30. Chapter 30

"What?" 

"We ran over Howie Johnson," Grace repeats, sounding perfectly calm, as if releasing the secret has saved her sanity in only a matter of seconds. 

"What do you mean you _ran over_ Howie Johnson?" I cry. 

Grace blinks and looks confused. "I mean, we ran him over...with a car...with Mr. Mason's car," 

"But...but Howie was hit by a drunk driver! Everyone knows that! Someone saw the car weaving down the street!" 

"We were _not_ drunk," Grace replies, slightly offended. "Cokie just didn't know how to drive." 

I smooth my hair back with one hand, just like Mom does when she's nervous or stressed. I wish Mom were here. She'd know what to say and do. All this time, I've wanted Grace to share her secret. Now that I know it, I don't want it. 

"I...I don't understand, Grace. What were you, Cokie, Kristy, and Abby doing in Mr. Mason's car, at night, when you were only fourteen?" I ask. It seems like the most obvious question. I have to start somewhere. I can't just turn around and walk out and pretend I never heard. 

"It was a dare," Grace replies. She moves over to the bed, sits on the edge and holds her head in her hands. "It was so stupid. Cokie and Kristy...we were all so stupid." Grace raises her head to look at me. Her eyes are droopy and tired. I guess spilling her secret hasn't completely lifted the burden. I think that's what she hoped, that she'd release it into the open and it would evaporate from her conscience. She must be very disappointed. 

"You can't just tell me that you ran over Howie Johnson and leave it at that," I tell her. 

Grace runs her fingers through her hair and bites her bottom lip. "I know," she says. "I want to tell you exactly what happened. Just...don't think too badly of us." 

I nod, thinking that nothing she says could possibly be worse than "we ran over Howie Johnson." 

Grace crosses her legs and stares down at her right knee. "It was the second week in August. I guess you and Mary Anne were away with Mallory Pike's family. Cokie's parents were in Providence for the weekend, so Cokie and I were throwing a party. We'd been out shopping for supplies and stopped at Pizza Express for lunch. Kristy and Abby were there, finishing a pizza. Abby was dumping an entire container of parmesan on the last slice. Cokie went over to them and said, 'I dare you to eat that,' and Kristy did! It was pretty gross since the parmesan was about two inches thick - " 

"What does this have to do with Howie Johnson?" I interrupt. 

"I'm getting to that!" Grace replies, testily. "It's a long story. So, Cokie and Kristy went back and forth, insulting each other. You know, the way they always did. Finally, Cokie said, 'my parents are out of town and we're having a party. Like, a real party, not some Baby-Sitters Club sleepover. I bet you're too chicken to come,' and Kristy said, 'we are not!' and Cokie said, 'aren't you afraid your mommy will find out?' and Kristy said, 'No, we'll be there.' Cokie and I didn't expect them to show up, but they did! There were a lot of kids there, but Kristy and Abby tracked us down. Right away, Cokie and Kristy started bickering and insulting each other. Then they started giving each other these stupid dares. Like, 'I dare you to eat that entire bowl of onion dip,' and 'I dare you to touch Austin Bentley's butt.' I told you, it was stupid. Then Kristy said, 'I dare you to drive your dad's Jag around the block.' Remember that silver Jaguar Mr. Mason used to drive? He _loved_ that car." 

I nod. Cokie used to brag about that car all the time. 

"I guess Kristy expected Cokie to back down because she looked really surprised when Cokie went to find the spare key. I think Cokie expected Kristy to chicken out, too. They both took a long time walking out to the garage and getting in the car. I told them we shouldn't take the car, but they wouldn't listen. And Abby was going on and on about how awesome it was. So, the four of us got in the car and Cokie backed out of the driveway. She backed out over her mom's flower bed and almost hit her neighbor's car. She also couldn't exactly drive in a straight line either. But it was pretty late and no one was out, so we figured it didn't matter. We drove around the block, then Kristy dared Cokie to drive farther. And Kristy and Abby kept daring her to drive farther and faster. We were all laughing and not really paying attention and going really fast and...we didn't even see him. Cokie never had time to even attempt to brake. It happened too fast. We were laughing, then there was this terrible thud, and this person flew over the windshield. He hit the trunk and rolled onto the street. By then we were all screaming and Cokie panicked. She just kept driving," 

"How could you leave him there, lying in the street?" I exclaim. 

"We didn't know it was Howie!" Grace cries. "I told you, Cokie panicked. Kristy and Abby were shouting at her to turn around. I...I told her to keep driving. She listened to me. We drove to my house. I jumped out of the car and ran to get my parents. When we came out, Cokie and Kristy were screaming and shoving each other. Abby was kneeling in the grass, vomiting. It was horrible. My mom made us go inside and my dad drove Mr. Mason's car into the garage. Then he took our car and drove out to Spring Street. That's where we hit Howie. Mom called Abby's mom and Kristy's parents. She couldn't reach the Masons. Kristy tried to call the cops. And, I...Stacey, I don't know what came over me! I was so terrible. I took a coffee table book and smacked her across the head. I must be so much like my parents, Stacey, because I already knew we were going to cover it up. 

Dad came back and told us the paramedics were working on Howie. It looked bad, Dad said. Mrs. Stevenson and the Brewers arrived. There was a lot of yelling and confusion. They wanted to call the police. Dad and Mom told them that we'd be sent to juvenile hall. We were driving underage and hit someone and fled the scene. And if Howie died, it would be much worse. We could take a chance, Dad said, that the courts would go easy on us. No one wanted to call the police then. We were so scared, Stacey. We didn't want to go to prison. And even if Howie lived and we got off easy, everyone would know! For the rest of our lives, we'd be the girls who almost killed Howie Johnson. His parents would have sued our parents and taken all our money. So, we agreed not to tell. Kristy and Abby went home with their parents and Mom drove Cokie back to her house. No one at the party even missed us. The next day, there was an article about the accident in the newspaper. That's when we learned it was Howie Johnson. He was in critical condition. Everyone thought a drunk driver hit him. Mrs. Brewer called Mom a few days later and told her that Kristy and Abby would be starting at Stoneybrook Day in the fall. It was for the best, she said, that we all stay away from each other. Mom agreed and told me to stay away from Cokie, too. She said I needed to start fresh in high school and forget about the accident. She and Dad wanted to send me to this all-girls boarding school in Maine. I refused and promised to stay away from Cokie. I have." 

I stare at Grace, dumbstruck. How am I supposed to respond to this? How am I supposed to react? I don't know what to think. It's like Grace just handed me proof that she and Cokie are all the things I always thought them to be - cold and heartless, wicked and unfeeling. Their true selves. Only wretched girls would cover this up, know from the start that they would cover it up. And what about Kristy and Abby? Kristy and Abby! I never would have thought them capable. But if I've learned anything this autumn, it's that no one is who I thought. 

I stare at Grace with her tear-stained face and wonder if she's really changed from the girl who left Howie Johnson lying in the road. Did her true self really shine through at that moment, when she told Cokie to keep driving? Is regretting it now enough to erase the dark spot on her soul? Her earlier words echo in my mind, _I don't know if I feel so horrible because of what I've done, or if I'm just so afraid of being found out._ Maybe that's it. After the nasty, hateful way she's treated Howie throughout high school, could she really be sorry for what she did? Or is she simply sorry he's around, a constant reminder that she could still be caught? Only yesterday, I felt so close to Grace and now it's like I'm facing a stranger. 

"Aren't you going to say anything?" Grace asks, rising from the bed. 

"What do you want me to say?" 

Grace shrugs. She doesn't know either. 

"Grace...I can't believe...how could you..." I stop and let my words hang in the air between us. 

Downstairs, the front door slams. 

"My parents!" Grace cries. 

Mrs. Blume's heels click across the foyer in swift strides, then pound up the stairs. "Grace!" she calls out. "We're home!" She swings around the doorway, then freezes. Her eyes grow wide and shift from me to Grace, then all around the room. "Oh my God," she gasps, then steps back into the hall. "Hal! Get up here!" she shouts. "What have you done, Grace?" Mrs. Blume screeches, charging into the room. 

My heart almost stops. For a moment, I think Mrs. Blume knows that Grace told. I wonder if she'll break my jaw like she once threatened to break Grace's. 

"We told you we were coming home!" Mrs. Blume continues. "We told you we'd work it out! You didn't have to destroy your room. Oh my God, Grace! Look at this mess! Do you have any idea how much it'll cost to replace these things?" 

"I was upset," Grace replies, simply. 

"Upset?" Mrs. Blume repeats, shrilly. She spins around in a circle, looking vaguely ill. I don't feel sorry for her. 

Mr. Blume appears in the doorway. His face drains of color. The Blumes are getting what they deserve. 

"Aren't you a little old for tantrums?" Mr. Blume asks Grace, wearily. 

"Am I?" 

"This isn't funny," Mrs. Blume snaps. She picks up a broken tennis trophy and stares at it in disgust. "I don't understand you, Grace." 

"Isn't that the problem?" Grace retorts. 

Grace and Mrs. Blume stare at each other, both with a hand planted firmly on her hip. They have the same chilly glare, the same tired frown. Mrs. Blume looks away. So does Grace. 

Mrs. Blume crosses the room to where I stand and slips her arm around my shoulders. She wears the same perfume as my mother. "You had to bring Stacey into this?" Mrs. Blume demands. "You want your friend to know how ungrateful you are? To see how you behave at home? You should be embarrassed, Grace. I am." 

"Stacey and I don't have secrets, Mom. She knows everything," 

Mrs. Blume's arm tenses around my shoulders. "Oh, really?" she says. 

I hope Mrs. Blume can't hear my heart pounding in my chest. More games. That's all this is. Grace is dragging me into some twisted game she and her parents play. Back and forth, cat and mouse, no one ever wins and no one ever loses. I don't want to be caught in the middle. I don't think Grace intended for me to be, but now that the opportunity presents itself, she's dragging me in. I won't be her leverage or her pawn or whatever she hopes to make me. 

"I know everything except why you called me over here," I say, loudly. "Why would you do this to your room?" 

Mrs. Blume drops her arm. "See, Grace? Stacey's appalled, too," 

Mrs. Blume steps away from me and turns to look at Mr. Blume, who's still standing the doorway. He shrugs. Mrs. Blume looks back between me and Grace, her mouth set in a deep frown. She's figuring us out. Finally, she turns and storms out of the room, pushing past Mr. Blume in the doorway. Down the hall, her bedroom door slams shut. 

"You should sleep in one of the guest bedrooms tonight," Mr. Blume tells Grace. He rubs his forehead. "We'll deal with this tomorrow night. You should probably go home, Stacey." 

"I should," I agree. "It's getting late." 

"But Stacey..." Grace protests, stepping toward me. 

"I'll see you tomorrow, Grace," I reply, looking away from her desperate, pleading gaze. I can't listen to anymore. I've had my fill for the night. 

"Bye Stace," Grace murmurs. 

I pause in the doorway, taking one last backward glance at Grace. She looks sad and pitiful with her streaked face and wild hair. A part of me resents her for giving me this new burden. I didn't know what I was asking for. Mr. Blume pats my arm and smiles reassuringly, a little promise that things will be okay. Not long ago, I would have believed him. I know better now. 

I leave the Blumes' with my head drowning in a foggy daze. I never really dwelled on the possibilities of Grace's secret. And now I have that secret rattling around in my conscience and it will rattle there forever because I promised not to tell. This is the worst secret of all. I can never slip and let it out. All my other secrets, I could release them and face the consequences and someday those consequences would fade. They wouldn't hang around and haunt me. Or maybe that will happen anyway. There are consequences to telling Grace's secret and consequences to keeping it. Is that what Grace wanted? To share her secret and with it some of the burden and the guilt? Or maybe it's much simpler. Grace only wanted someone to trust. Someone to listen, like her parents don't. Maybe the Blumes really are as Grace claims, dishonest and amoral. Or maybe she doesn't see them correctly and they love her and only want to protect her. I guess the truth lies somewhere in between. 

I pull into my driveway and sit. I turn off the engine and the lights and sit in the darkness. The car is still warm from the heater. I don't know what to tell my mother. When I walk into the house, all these secrets churning inside me might rise forth like a tidal wave and drown us both. 

Forever is a long time. My entire life. I'm only seventeen and a half. If I live to be eighty, then I'll have to keep Grace's secret another sixty-two and a half years. I bet Grace has realized that. That must be what really torments her, knowing that all the years she must remain silent far exceed the years she's already lived. That's a long time to keep a secret, all the time fearing the secret will come out, out into the open to expose your lies and deception and your real self. I understand Grace now, in a way. 

It's turning cold inside the car. I gather my purse and parka and step out into the frigid night air. I start to walk toward the front steps, but stop and turn around. There's an odd feeling creeping up my spine, making the hairs on my neck stand on end. The feeling that someone's watching. There is someone watching. Across the street, outside the Mendelson's house, the dark brown car is parked. All the lights are out and the engine's off, but I see a dark figure sitting in the front seat, watching me. It's the car Julie saw a few weeks ago, the car I've seen circling the block. This is the closest I've been to it, the clearest view I've had. 

I set my purse and parka on the hood of my car. Folding my arms tight over my chest, I cross the street. The cold is unrelenting and all I'm wearing are jeans and a thin gray sweater. When I reach the car, I bend down and tap on the driver's side window. It rolls down slowly. 

"What are you doing, Sam?" 

I try not to be creeped out that he's outside my house in the pitch black night. I know he does this often, parks and stares, or drives past again and again. There have been enough sightings to know this isn't a rarity. I shiver. I can't help but be creeped out. 

"Can we talk?" Sam asks. 

I hesitate. I've already had enough. I'm tired. I want to escape to my bedroom and lock the world out. Everyone's fighting for a piece of me. Everyone needs me to save them. Whatever Sam wants, I don't want to take it. But still, I nod and walk around to the passenger side and climb into the car. Curiosity is a dangerous thing. 

"I never see you anymore, Stacey," Sam says in a sad, pitiful voice. 

"I'm busy with school," 

"Are you avoiding me?" 

"Yes," I reply because there's no use in lying. 

"It's because of Janet, isn't it? She's so possessive. I don't want her to scare you off," Sam tells me. I can barely make out his face in the dimness of the street lamp, but I see in him the same boy I thought I loved. Only now the boy looks miserable and exhausted. "I need you in my life, Stacey," he presses on. "The worst thing I ever did was break up with you. Why did we break up? I don't even remember now. It was a mistake. Just like Janet and me. A huge mistake. Let's correct our mistake, Stacey. We could be together again," 

"Sam, you're married. You have a child," 

"Don't you think I know that?" Sam demands, hitting the steering wheel. "I can never forget it. I'm stuck in this life that I don't want. I'm so stuck, Stacey. All I want is to be with you and for things to be the way they used to be." 

"Sam...we broke up over three years ago. It's not me you want. We hardly know each other anymore," 

"That's not true! I'm still in love with you! And if we could be together everything would be all right. My life would be worth something," 

Sam leans over and kisses me. I surprise myself by kissing him back. Something stirs inside me. Maybe a little part of me still loves Sam. Maybe a little part of me always will. Sam kisses me harder and slips his hand under my sweater and beneath my bra. There must be something wrong with me because I keep kissing him even though I know it's wrong. I'm horrible. I'm just like my mother. 

I push Sam away. I won't be like Mom. 

"Stacey," Sam says in a small, pleading voice. "Can't we just have one more night together? You could fix so much," Sam moves his hands to his belt and starts unbuckling it. 

I could go down on him like I used to. Or I could crawl into the backseat and give him my virginity. I could make him feel better. Just like I used to. It wouldn't take much time or effort. It wouldn't kill me or hurt me or inconvenience me. But it wouldn't fix anything. It's like putting a board over a broken window. It's only a temporary solution. The window's still broken. And that's what I would be. A temporary solution for Sam. The board over his broken window. 

"I'm sorry, Sam, but I'm not that girl anymore," 

I open the door and step out into the night. When I close the door, Sam starts to cry. He rests his head on the steering wheel and sobs. As sorry as I feel for him, his pain is not my problem. I can't solve what's wrong in his life. And it's not fair of him to ask. 

Sam's still there when I open the front door. I hope he doesn't plan to stay outside my house all night. I watch him for a moment. It scares me how close I came to giving him what he wanted. 

"Mom, I'm home!" I call out when I step into the house. I lock the door behind me, then make sure the front curtains are shut tight. 

Mom doesn't answer. I glance up the staircase. Her bedroom door is open. Then I hear her voice in the kitchen. I toss my purse and parka on the couch and follow the sound of her voice. Mom's seated at the kitchen table in her old, ratty blue-gray bathrobe. Her hair's pinned up and her face scrubbed clean. Her eyes are a little red and puffy. There's a half glass of red wine and the open bottle sitting in front of her on the table along with the phone book. The phone is pressed to her left ear and she's talking into the receiver while circling something in the phone book. 

"No, I have the phone book out," she says, then looks up and gives me a small wave. "Yes, I found the name. I circled it...well, I don't know. It seems a bit silly...you don't think so?" 

I hope she's not talking to Mr. Prezzioso. 

"No, I think it's worth trying...it's just...you're probably right," Mom says. She glances at me again and waves me away, impatiently. If she knew what I'd been through today, all that's currently resting on my shoulders, she wouldn't be so dismissive. I sigh and wander over to the sink, where I take a cup out of the cabinet. 

"I'll talk to him about it," Mom says into the receiver. "It won't hurt to try...No, I agree, Fay." 

I drop the cup. Thankfully, it's plastic, so it bounces instead of breaks. I whip around and stare at Mom. _Fay_? Mom's talking to Mrs. Blume? I lean back into the counter, gripping the edge. Why is Mom on the phone with Mrs. Blume? Mom's fond of the Blumes, but she hardly knows them. They sit together at swim meets, but that's all. In the three years Grace and I have been friends, I remember Mrs. Blume calling here once. Did Mom call Grace's house looking for me? Or did Mrs. Blume call here? Why would she do that? I think she knows Grace told me about the accident. Or at least suspects. I saw it in the way her eyes flashed between us before she stormed out of the room. And so...she decided to telephone my mom? To talk about something in the phone book? 

"Is that Mrs. Blume?" I hiss, hurrying to stand beside Mom. I look down at the phone book. Mom covers something with her hand. She's not fast enough. I see what she's circled. It's a name listed under Marriage and Family Counseling. "Is that Mrs. Blume?" I hiss again. 

"Just a minute, Fay," Mom says, irritably, then covers the receiver with her hand. "_What_?" she asks me. 

"Are you talking to Mrs. Blume?" I demand. 

"Yes!" 

"Who needs counseling?" 

"Stacey, can't this wait? I've had a very bad day. Please let me finish this call," Mom waves me away again, then returns to her phone call. "I'm sorry, Fay. I don't know what's gotten into Stacey tonight..." Mom picks up her wine and drains the glass. "Yes, actually, I just drank some...no, I don't think I'll drink the entire bottle...no, I really shouldn't..." 

I've figured out the reason for Mrs. Blume's call. She feared I'd come home and spill everything to Mom, all about Howie and the accident and the cover up. So, she decided to beat me to Mom. If she had Mom distracted on the telephone, I wouldn't be able to tell. Then maybe I'd think it over and decide to keep my promise. I'm disappointed. I expected something much more sinister and diabolical from the mind of Mrs. Blume. There's not much brilliance in distracting someone and apparently, attempting to convince them to get drunk. That's the stupidest plan I've ever heard. And fortunately for Mrs. Blume this is the one night that stupid plan would work. 

Mom's pouring another glass of wine when I finally leave the kitchen. As I'm climbing the back stairs, I hear her ask, "So, what do you think of Madeleine Prezzioso?" 

Oh, Mom, have you ever chosen the wrong person for your new best friend. 


	31. Chapter 31

Monday seemed endless, but the rest of the week passes quickly. There are no more incidents or arguments or unkind words. Everything moves along with ease, fast and almost surreal. On Tuesday, we all slip into these odd little roles and carry on the acts throughout the week. We're all polite and pleasant, but none of it seems real.

I don't know what to say to anyone anymore. Not to Grace or Lauren or Mom. Not to Emily or Julie or Erica. How did my life become like this? I am still alone, always. I am an island of my own creation with winds threatening to knock me over and blow me away. I am light now, like a feather, and could float off so effortlessly.

Not only do I not know what to say to anyone, I don't know where I stand with anyone either. It would take a lot of energy to sort it out, energy I don't have to spare, so I continue on and everyone follows my lead. We tread softly around each other, like we're on eggshells. It's a good thing because while I am an island and a feather, I am also an eggshell and will break easily under any added weight.

Grace and I have not discussed her revelation. It hangs above us, never thinning, but we don't speak of it. On Tuesday, Grace waited at my locker and asked, "Are we still friends?" and I said, "Yes," and hoped it was the truth. Now we've fallen into our old patterns, so effortlessly that it's almost as if that secret weren't dangling over us. I'm surprised it hasn't crowded us out, taken over, and poisoned us. Maybe it still will.

Lauren and I have entered some bizarre truce. I don't forgive her, don't know if I ever can, but we sit together in French class and maintain a strained politeness. Lauren is waiting me out. She thinks I will break down and let her in again. She may have a very long wait.

Emily and I aren't speaking. This seems to be a mutual agreement. She didn't eat lunch with me on Tuesday like she promised, like I didn't expect her to. She's become a phantom friend. Sometimes I see her in the halls, but she disappears quickly. I wonder if this is how it will always be from now on.

Julie and Erica. They're here in my room right now. Erica's sitting indian-style on my bed, sorting through a box of old nail polishes. Julie's stretched out on the floor beside my bookcase, pulling books off the shelves, and muttering, "read it, read it, this is crap, read it..." I think we're fine, Julie, Erica, and I. I'm not that upset with their having kept secrets from me, even though those secrets were about me. Or at least about my mother. And I'm not even upset that they neglected to tell me that Lauren is a complete loon. I'm tired of being upset with everyone, punishing them and them punishing me. I want things to be smooth with someone. Two someones is even better.

Today is the first day of December. When November swept in with promises of being so much better than October, I believed it. I want December to be better than November. But I won't accept any more promises. I'm tired of searching for turning points. Like everything else, they only disappoint me.

"What time do you have to be at Bellair's?" Erica asks me, checking her watch. "Six?"

"Yep. I work six to nine. A short shift," I reply from my desk chair, then I add, darkly, "Mary Anne's working tonight."

Julie looks up from the bookcase, surprised. "Mary Anne?" she repeats.

I nod. "It's her first shift of the season. We'll only be together for three hours tonight, but we're both there all afternoon tomorrow,"

"Maybe this is a good thing," suggests Erica, pushing her messy, bushy bangs out of her eyes. "You and Mary Anne will have to work together, cooperate with each other. You might make up."

"Doubtful," I say. I don't even know if I _want_ to make up with Mary Anne anymore. Not after she's been so self-centered and nasty. Although, I am really curious to know what's going on with her and her home life. I'm not sure if I am confusing caring with simple nosiness though. Or the other way around.

"Any news on Mary Anne's dad and stepmom?" asks Julie. It's like she can read my thoughts.

Erica's studying her thumbnail, which she's just painted a murky teal color. "Claudia saw Mary Anne and her stepmom at the video store on Wednesday. She said they were acting totally normal. Neither said anything about Mrs. Spier being in California,"

"Weird," says Julie. She's flat on her back now, thumbing through my copy of _A Thousand Acres_. "This looks fabulous. I'm going to borrow it. So, still think the Spiers are headed for divorce? Maybe they're getting help, like at...marriage counseling!" Julie laughs, far louder than a normal person would.

"That isn't funny! I never should have told you," I snap, then scowl at Erica, who raises an eyebrow and shrugs.

Julie stops laughing, stretches her arms far above her head, and tilts it back toward me. "I'm sorry, Stacey. It's just unbelievably hilarious that your mother was prepared to break up with Mr. Prezzioso and then, Mrs. Blume convinced her to go to marriage counseling. Marriage counseling!" Julie laughs again.

"It isn't marriage counseling. It's couples counseling. Mom and Mr. Prezzioso aren't married and they never will be!" I exclaim, which quiets Julie's laughter. Until now, I was in an all right mood. Julie knows how to sour a good thing.

On Monday night when I saw that Mom had circled a name under Marriage and Family Counseling, I actually assumed it was for us. For _me_. I thought maybe that's what Mrs. Blume called about. That somehow she'd convinced Mom I needed counseling. I couldn't figure out why Mrs. Blume would do that, how that could possibly work in her favor. I was wrong. It had nothing to do with me. Mom waited until Tuesday evening to tell me that she and Mr. Prezzioso weren't breaking up after all. Mrs. Blume talked her into giving couples counseling a try. Mrs. Blume even recommended someone, a woman who supposedly saved the Masons' marriage. I'm not sure what Mrs. Blume's angle is, or if it's just another distraction tactic while she decides what I know and what Mom knows.

Mom and Mr. Prezzioso in couples counseling is the most idiotic thing I've ever heard. My parents tried counseling, but the woman turned out to be more of a divorce counselor than a marriage one. I used to resent her. Now I hope that this new counselor has half the wisdom of the old one.

Erica rolls her eyes. "Stacey, don't worry. This relationship will end eventually. It doesn't matter what he does. His ex-wife is still a nut and his kids are still terrors. Your mom will get fed up and end it,"

"Thank you, Erica, for the support,"

Julie rolls onto her stomach, resting her chin in her right hand. "I'm sorry, Stacey, but it _is_ funny. And I still don't see why you dislike Mr. Prezzioso so much. He seems all right to me,"

"Don't listen to her, Stacey. Julie just thinks he's cute. She thinks he has nice calves,"

I arch an eyebrow. "Nice calves? You are so bizarre, Julie,"

Julie shrugs. "I saw him jogging around Lauren's apartment building," she says. Julie sits up in an odd rolling motion and springs to her feet. She throws herself onto the bed beside Erica. The nail polishes clink together in their box. "In all seriousness, Stace, what does Mrs. Blume care if your mom and Mr. Prezzioso break up? Talk about bizarre."

"Oh...well..." I reply, turning away and messing with some papers on my desk. I drop it there. Like all my other secrets, it's hard not to tell, to not open up and pour forth all I have. I wonder if this feeling will go away after awhile, this need to unburden myself. Grace's secret can't possibly beat around my head for all my years to come. Eventually, it has to fade into the background and give me some peace.

Julie and Erica make no indication that they expect an explanation from me. These days they seem to take what I say at face value. They don't analyze too much or push too hard. They give me the space I need. It's these egg-shells we're walking on. They are both burdensome and freeing.

At a quarter to six Erica drives me to Bellair's. I sit in front with her and Julie sits in the back, but keeps unbuckling her seatbelt and leaning forward between the seats to join the conversation. Erica scolds her, so Julie leans back and buckles her seatbelt. Then thirty seconds later, she's between the seats again, asking us to repeat what we just said. It's strange, all these completely normal moments scattered amongst all the abnormal ones.

"What are you going to say to Mary Anne?" Julie asks when we turn onto Main Street.

"Nothing," I reply, then shrug, so it seems like I really don't care.

"If you don't talk to her how can you find out what's going on with her dad and stepmom?"

"You're resourceful, Julie. I'm sure you can figure out how to pump the information from someone eventually,"

"Seatbelt, Julie," says Erica, briskly.

Erica lets me off at the entrance to Bellair's. I know Erica and Julie are headed back to Erica's house to meet Claudia and Lauren. I sort of regret my job at the Kid Center. Not just because of Mary Anne, but because I'm missing out on something normal. I should be on my way to Erica's to make cheese enchiladas and watch bad horror movies. I deserve a flicker of an ordinary teenage life. Instead all I have is a string of regrettable choices and confidences with very little good woven between.

"Come over after work," suggests Erica. "Everyone will be over until late. We'll save you some food."

"Maybe,"

Erica smiles. "It'll be fun. Think about it,"

I nod and thank her for the ride. I step out of the car onto the curb and shut the door. As Erica drives away, I wave to the retreating Thunderbird with its crumpled bumper. I take a deep breath and just as I'm about to turn toward the entrance, a gray Saturn pulls up five feet away from me. Pete Black's behind the wheel. Mary Anne's in the passenger seat. I don't even pretend not to stare. Mary Anne climbs out of the car without a kiss or a hug goodbye. Anyone else watching would assume it's just a friend dropping another friend off at work. Me, I'm not so sure. I can't figure out Pete and Mary Anne's strange relationship.

Mary Anne breezes past me without a word or a glance. Our shift hasn't even started and already she's freezing me out. This is how it's going to be. Any effort at civility on my part will be completely ignored. I could make it easy for us, but Mary Anne insists on making it hard.

I stand three steps behind Mary Anne on the escalator. We must look odd, standing so straight and stiff, staring wordlessly ahead in our matching white parkas. Maybe I should retire mine. We aren't best friends anymore. We shouldn't be showing up places still looking like a matched pair.

"Stacey and Mary Anne!" Mrs. Grossman cries when we reach the Kid Center gate. A look of relief washes over her face. She must think we've reconciled. After all, we're together and looking the part. What a crushing disappointment in store for poor Mrs. Grossman. "Welcome back, Mary Anne," she says, wrapping her arms around Mary Anne for a quick hug. "I was afraid you girls would be late. Laurie's already gone home and I have a dinner reservation to make in twenty minutes. It will be just you two and Hank until closing. Mary Anne, let me show you a few things we've changed since the summer..."

Mrs. Grossman leads Mary Anne away toward the sign-in sheet. I store my parka and purse in a locker, then jump into the middle of a game of Simon Says that Hank has started. Most of the kids are involved in the game while a couple others are engrossed in their coloring books. I figure if Hank and I keep the majority of the kids interested in group games, then Mary Anne can handle the sign-ins and outs. We can probably avoid each other the entire night if we try hard enough. Hank and the kids will make terrific buffers.

Apparently, Mary Anne disagrees. Half an hour after our shift begins I'm in the middle of a game of Mother May I? when I hear her voice behind me. "This isn't fair," she spits out. I don't recall her ever sounding so shrill.

Hank and I both have our arms raised in the air, facing each other. Hank lowers his slowly, looking confused. I don't believe he's met Mary Anne before. I keep my hands raised and my back to her and respond, calmly, "Whatever is the matter, Mary Anne?"

"It's not fair that I'm doing all the real work while you're goofing off with the kids,"

"You're opening the gate and writing on a clipboard. I'd hardly call that 'real' work, Mary Anne," I tell her. What a drama queen.

Hank doesn't know not to be disgusted. He's just confused. "Gee...sorry...Marie...? We can switch. I'll watch the entrance for awhile," he offers. He must think she's nuts.

Mary Anne grunts as Hank jogs off, most likely to escape the craziness that has become Mary Anne Spier. I've almost forgotten why we're fighting. Just as I've also almost forgotten why we were ever friends in the first place.

"Let's play something else. This game is lame," says Mary Anne. She won't look at me, but I know she's speaking more to me than to the kids. "What should we play instead? Who likes Telephone?"

I chuckle. "Telephone? And you thought my game was lame?"

Mary Anne glares at me. "Other people can have ideas and suggestions, Stacey. You are not in charge. You can't have your way all the time. Not everything is about you,"

I stare at her. I don't even know what she's talking about. "Okay, okay. If you feel that strongly about Telephone, you can play Telephone. We'll split into groups," I tell her. This isn't the time or place to argue. We have an entire group of kids watching us and listening to our every word. We're here to do a job. I clap my hands and raise my voice. "Listen up! We're breaking into two groups. Anyone who wants to play Telephone follow Mary Anne to the back corner. Anyone who wants to continue Mother May I? stay here with me."

"I could have made that announcement," snaps Mary Anne, then storms off toward the back of the Kid Center. Five kids trail after her.

Mary Anne and I don't speak the rest of the shift. In fact, Mary Anne doesn't leave her corner. She'll probably tell everyone I banished her there. Hank and I take turns working the entrance. The Kid Center closes at nine, the same time as Bellair's. Hank is in charge of closing, but Mary Anne and I stay behind to help him put away toys and straighten up. I'm surprised when Mary Anne volunteers to stay late. Maybe she thought I'd attempt to deprive her the privilege of picking up trash.

Mary Anne, Hank, and I ride the escalator together. Mary Anne stands four steps ahead of Hank and I. "You have the same coat," Hank observes.

"I had it first," Mary Anne replies, coldly.

Hank turns to me and crosses his eyes in this Can-You-Believe-This-Girl look. I shrug and try not to appear concerned. Outside, it's drizzling. Hank promised me a ride, but makes me wait on the curb while he brings the car around. Mary Anne's waiting too. I wonder if Pete's picking her up. We stand as far apart as possible. It's uncomfortable. It's ridiculous. We shouldn't be this way.

"Look," I start, staring straight ahead. "We have to work together, like it or not. We've made a commitment. I don't want to spend every shift bickering with you. Can we call a truce? At least during working hours?"

"No,"

I finally look at her, shocked. Her mean-spirited jabs are one thing, but I'm not accustomed to her being so frostily blunt and rude. What has happened to Mary Anne? Where are all the qualities I once so admired in her?

"I wasn't even going to keep this job," Mary Anne says, flatly. "I wanted to quit. Sharon told me that was wrong. I'd made a commitment to work somewhere I love. And I shouldn't let the selfish spitefulness of another person stand in my way."

"You're listening to _Sharon_ now?" I ask in disbelief.

"Who else is there?" Mary Anne demands.

Hank pulls around then in his battered Chevy truck. Sharon is right behind him in her car. Mary Anne doesn't glance my way again. She practically runs to Sharon's car and leaps into the front seat. I have no idea what's going on. It's like I've entered a parallel dimension. One where Mary Anne speaks my name like it is poisoned, then turns to Sharon for the antidote.

"The new girl's weird," Hank says, as we drive out of the parking lot. He's college-aged. It's his first season at the Kid Center. I think he's Mrs. Grossman's third cousin or something.

"Yep," I agree.

"Do you know her?"

"I thought I did. I was wrong," I reply, then lean over and turn up the volume on the radio.

There are no immediate surprises when I get home. I've come to dread walking into new rooms. I feel like something's always waiting for me, preparing to jump out and shake me up. But when I enter the living room everything appears in order, the same when I pass through the dining room and into the kitchen. No out-of-place people lurking, nothing in obvious disarray. In the kitchen, Mom's lower half sticks out of the oven. She's wearing gray sweatpants and old sneakers. I'm pleased she isn't out with Mr. Prezzioso. I'm even more pleased she's not out with Mrs. Blume.

"I'm home," I announce, tossing my purse onto the table.

Mom ducks out of the oven. Her hair is twisted up in a messy bun. She has a can of oven cleaner in one hand and a dirty rag in the other. There's a guilty pang in my chest that I was so pleased to find her alone on a Friday night. No wonder she can't let go of Mr. Prezzioso. No wonder she's so eager to take up with Mrs. Blume. She has no one else.

"How are things at the Kid Center?" Mom asks, cheerfully.

"I worked with Mary Anne,"

"And?"

"It could have been worse,"

"The phrase 'it could have been worse' is never a good sign," says Mom, closing the oven door.

I slip off my parka and drape it over the back of a chair. "No, really, it wasn't that bad. We spent most of the shift pretending the other wasn't there. So, yeah, could have been worse," I insist, opening the refrigerator door and removing a carton of blueberry yogurt. "There were some tense moments though. Mary Anne said some strange things. I think Sharon's loopiness has rubbed off on her."

Mom nods and sprays the stove top with a multi-purpose cleaner. She knows if she doesn't push I'll keep talking.

"She kept saying stuff about my being self-centered. I guess I am, or at least, I can be. But that has nothing to do with anything, you know? Then she said I'm selfish _and_ spiteful. I may be selfish, but I don't think I'm spiteful. Mary Anne's the spiteful one. She's punishing me for all these things I've done, or she thinks I've done. I don't even know what this is all about anymore, Mom. I really don't,"

Mom gives me a sympathetic smile. "I'd say it's not about you then, Stacey. Whatever is wrong with Mary Anne, you can't blame yourself for it. If she won't discuss it with you, it can't be your responsibility. I've told you before, Stace. You can't be everything to everyone,"

"I didn't say I thought I could be," I object, but Mom knows me too well to believe that.

I lean back against the counter and watch Mom clean while I eat my yogurt. She wipes the counter in slow, precise circles. Her mind is somewhere else. "Have you been cleaning all night?" I ask.

"Yes," she replies, shortly. Another night of this and she'll be rushing back to Mr. Prezzioso with open arms. Or worse, to Mrs. Blume.

"I guess I'll go upstairs and put my pajamas on. Erica wanted me to come over, but I'm exhausted. This entire week has drained me," I say, then start toward the back stairs.

"Oh, Stacey..." Mom calls after me. "I completely forgot. You had some phone calls," she says, crossing to the phone and plucking a post-it from the wall. "Kristy Thomas and Cokie Mason." Mom hands me the post-it.

I stare at the paper. The names and numbers stare back at me in blue ink, in Mom's neat and straight cursive. I don't know which shocks me more - that Cokie called or that Kristy called. At least Cokie has a reason. We sit together in English. We talk more than twice a year.

"What did they want?" I ask, still staring at the paper.

"Kristy didn't say," Mom replies, then gives me an odd look. "Cokie wants to know if you have her bra."

I lift my eyes, startled. "Her...oh," is all I manage to say.

Mom raises her arms. "Stacey, I don't even want to know," she says.

Upstairs, I change into my pajamas and brush my teeth. It's nearly ten 'o clock when I finally climb into bed. I stare at the note again. What could Kristy want with me? She hasn't called me since...since when? I can't even remember. Maybe Grace said something to her. Could Kristy know what I know?

At least I know what Cokie wants. I set the phone in my lap and dial Erica's phone number. It rings three times, then Erica answers. It takes a few minutes of her begging me to come over before she puts Julie on the phone.

"Why aren't you coming over?" Julie demands when she gets on the line.

"Long day. Long week," I reply, simply. "I'm already in bed in my pajamas. Hey, remember Emily's birthday party?"

"You expect anyone to forget it?"

"Yeah, yeah. Remember how you were wearing Cokie Mason's bra?"

"Yes,"

"She wants it back. She called here asking about it,"

"She just now realized it's missing?"

I sigh. "I don't know. I guess. Maybe she has minor brain damage or something. The point is, she wants it back. Do you still have it?"

"I gave it to Paul,"

I wrinkle my nose. Julie and Paul are so bizarre. "What does...nevermind. Can you get it back from him?"

There's a short pause on the other end. "He doesn't have it," Julie replies.

"You just said he did," I say, testily.

"No. I said I gave it to him. He doesn't have it anymore," explains Julie, then hesitates slightly. "He sold it. For twenty dollars. He only gave me five, which I don't think was fair at all. I should have gotten half. Paul said it was better than nothing. I used the money to buy those new earrings. The purple and silver shooting stars. You said you liked them - "

"Julie!" I cry, interrupting. I smack my forehead with my palm. "Paul _sold_ Cokie Mason's bra?" I'm honestly not surprised. "To who?"

"I don't know. Some moron willing to pay twenty bucks for a used granny-style bra,"

"You know, Julie, I'm sure you'd love it if Paul sold your underwear to Trevor Sandbourne," I tell her.

There's a moment of silence on the line. "You don't think he has, do you?" she asks.

"Could you please find out who he sold the bra to?" I respond, ignoring her question.

"I guess,"

I can't say I'm thrilled with the knowledge that I'll devote part of my weekend to tracking down Cokie Mason's lingerie. Somehow I feel responsible though. Maybe Mom's right and I shouldn't feel responsible for things out of my control. But I'll track down Cokie's bra anyway. I can turn over his or her name and allow Cokie to do the rest. I suspect Cokie has a lot of pent up rage. Hopefully, the culprit will be someone I dislike. If only it could be Mary Anne.

Perhaps Mary Anne was correct in calling me spiteful.

I stare at Kristy's phone number again. It's probably too late to call. I might wake up Emily Michelle. But if I wait until tomorrow, I might put it off forever. I pick up the receiver, stare at it awhile, listening to the dial tone, then finally punch in the numbers. Kristy answers on the first ring, like she's been sitting by the phone, waiting for me to return her call.

"Hey..." I say when it's all I can think of.

"Hey..." she says back.

Silence. Long, awkward silence.

"You called," I point out. I've never known Kristy to be without words.

Kristy makes a funny noise in her throat. "Yep...I called. Um...I don't know how to put this..." Kristy's voice trails off as someone starts speaking in the background. I hear Kristy's hand cover the receiver, then there's a muffled fumbling sound. "Sorry about that," Kristy says a couple seconds later. "Listen, Stacey...have you talked to Sam lately?"

She called about Sam?

"No, not lately," I reply, which isn't technically a lie, not if you don't count five days ago as "lately".

"You didn't talk to him at the A&P or anything?"

"No, not for a long time," That, at least, is definitely not a lie. "What is this about?" I wonder if Janet's on some jealous tirade.

"Sam's gone,"

"What?"

"Sam's gone," Kristy repeats. She says those two words very simply. Very matter-of-factly. Not even like they're something inevitable or new, but like they're something that's always been true. Maybe she expected it all along.

"He's gone? Are you sure?" What a stupid thing to ask. Someone's either gone or they're not. If it were not, Kristy wouldn't have called.

"No one's seen him since Tuesday night. He took his backpack and a few things. He left the car, he left everything. He didn't even leave a note. Mom and Janet are frantic," Kristy explains. Her voice is rather emotionless. It's not like talking to the Kristy I once called a friend. A lot of time has past. She's not the same person I knew. Not the same person I thought I knew. That is obvious.

"I haven't seen him," I lie. What good would the truth be? What would it help? I don't know anything. Not anything everyone else doesn't already know. Sam was miserable. Sam hated the life he made for himself. Sam thought I was his solution. None of that is earth-shattering, breaking information. Everyone knew.

"Thanks anyway," Kristy mumbles and hangs up the phone.

I set the phone back on my night table, then sink below the covers. I switch off thelamp. Downstairs, I hear Mom banging the cupboards in the kitchen. Open. Close. Open. Close. Then it stops. I hear Mom's footsteps on the stairs, then coming toward my bedroom. I roll onto my side and close my eyes, as the door creaks open. It shuts softly and Mom's footsteps retreat.

I should feel guilty. Shouldn't I? I should blame myself for some piece of this, even though it's not my fault. I am so far removed from Sam's life that I can't possibly be at fault to any degree. I am only his excuse. Sam might call me his breaking point, but that isn't my fault either. Maybe it's selfish to refuse even undeserved blame, to be so fully aware that there is no validity to the claim. Mary Anne would say so. She would deny I am completely faultless. She would say I gave Sam a glimmer of hope, then stole it back. She would say I helped destroy a family. She would say I am exactly like my mother.

I shouldn't care what Mary Anne would say.


	32. Chapter 32

"I come bearing fabulous news,"

Grace, Julie, Lauren, and I glance up from our lunches as Erica sets down her tray and slides into the empty seat between Grace and Lauren. Grace looks relieved. One empty seat was not enough space between her and Lauren. Erica makes a wonderful, concrete boundary.

"Rotting corpses have been discovered in the boiler room, so school's canceled until after Christmas?" guesses Julie.

Erica wrinkles her nose. "Um...no. It's better than that!" Erica unfolds a piece of glossy paper from her jeans pocket. She holds it up for us to see. "Skeeball's playing in New York in two weeks!"

I drop my apple and shriek. Several kids at the next table turn to stare. I don't care. Erica and I shriek together. Grace and Lauren appear underwhelmed.

"Who the hell is Skeeball?" demands Julie.

Erica's jaw falls. "You must be kidding!" she gasps.

"Sorry, I guess I'm not up on what the kids are listening to these days," Julie replies, snatching the paper out of Erica's hand. She gives it a brief look of disgust, then throws it back at Erica. "That's that idiot from U4Me. You listen to that crap?"

"Skyllo's a poet," I inform her. I almost shriek again, but then I realize something. I sigh. "There's no way my mom will let me go into New York for a concert. Remember what happened last time? She certainly hasn't forgotten. Besides, she's still mad about Emily's party. And Erica, the concert is two weeks away. It's probably sold out."

"They wouldn't advertise it in the magazine if it were sold out!" Erica protests, pointing at the ad. "Come on, Stacey! Ask your mom. Claudia and I go into New York for concerts all the time. Nothing bad has ever happened."

Julie takes a swallow of chocolate milk. "Maybe Mrs. Blume could call and convince her," she suggests.

I glance quickly across the table at Grace, who has bowed her head over her salad. She picks at it, avoiding my gaze. We haven't discussed her mom calling my mom and her mom's motives for doing so. I'm unsure how to broach the subject. Most of the time, I'm uncomfortable around Grace and at a loss for words. Grace fills up my silences, quickly and eagerly, like she's afraid my silence will go on forever and swallow us whole.

Erica doesn't notice our discomfort. "My mom will call your mom," she assures me with urgency. "Don't ask her just yet though. We'll make sure we can get tickets first. We have to buy the tickets from these certain vendors in New York. I'm going to call them and see who has tickets left. Then we just need someone who can purchase them for us. I can't do that over the phone." Erica turns and stares pointedly at Grace.

Grace pauses with a forkful of salad poised in front of her mouth. "What?" she asks.

"Your parents are in New York everyday,"

Grace narrows her eyes and scrunches her nose. "My parents are not going to spend their lunch breaks racing around New York searching for concert tickets," she says, coldly.

"They spend their lunch breaks buying you clothes," I point out.

"If you want a concert ticket, your parents will buy you a concert ticket. They can buy a few more while they're at it," says Julie.

"Oh, you don't even know who Skeeball is!" Grace snaps. "And I don't even really _like_ Skeeball." Grace pouts for a moment, then sighs. "All right. I'll ask. No promises. My parents are sort of mad at me."

Lauren snorts, but the sound is covered by Erica's and my squeals of joy. I probably can't even go, but just the prospect is thrilling. Erica reaches across the table and grabs my hands. We squeeze hard and squeal again. Erica shakes her head wildly, her thick brown hair whipping Lauren and Grace in the face.

"It's just a band," mutters Julie.

"It is not _just_ a band!" I exclaim.

Erica nods, grinning like a maniac. "It's not! Now, the five of us, right? Claudia's so disappointed she can't go. Her family leaves for Japan on the fourteenth. Clear your calendars for Saturday the sixteenth!"

Julie balls up her lunch bag, shaking her head. "As much as I'll miss finding out who these Skeeball people are, I already have plans that night. I'm going to the Kenny Rogers concert in New Haven with the Bernsteins. They gave me Emily's ticket,"

"You are not serious," I scoff.

"Kenny Rogers is cool. He's the Gambler, man,"

Lauren laughs. "Why, oh why would Emily pass that up?"

Everyone laughs, but my stomach goes cold. I pinch a cracker between my fingers and manage a weak smile followed by a fake, hollow laugh. No one notices.

After lunch, Lauren and I walk to French together. We don't talk like we used to. We're more friends out of convenience, all surface and no feeling. Sometimes my anger fades and then sometimes it rages fast and hot inside me. Usually, it settles somewhere in between. It's easier like that. I don't have enough emotions to spread around and Lauren isn't deserving of them.

Lauren and I are turning the corner when Cokie Mason appears from under the stairwell and corners me against the wall.

"My bra?" she says in her cool, even voice.

"Oh," I say, dumbly. Cokie wasn't in English yesterday or today. I'd completely forgotten about her bra. "I'm tracking it down, Cokie."

"Tracking it down?" she cries, her eyes widening.

"I mean...I just have to get it back from Julie and Paul Stern,"

Cokie rolls her eyes. "Good Lord..." she says, then turns and storms off.

"It's nothing," I tell Lauren when I see her open her mouth. She closes it and follows me into the classroom.

* * *

Now that I don't have a car I usually get rides from Grace or Erica. Technically, I'm supposed to walk or ride my bike to and from school. That's part of my punishment. I think Mom knows I'm not doing either. She just doesn't say anything.

I have to stay behind in Statistics to receive a lecture from Miss Everhart. I've been skipping a lot of Math Club meetings lately. I skipped again yesterday. If I miss one more meeting, I'm booted from primary block. I promise I'll be at Wednesday's meeting. At the moment, I intend to keep that promise.

The parking lot is mostly empty. I spot Erica's Thunderbird and Grace's Corvette parked side by side in A-Lot. Grace and Julie are on the hood of Erica's car. Grace with her knees drawn to her chest, Julie seated indian-style. Erica and Lauren stand in front of them.

"Julie!" I shout when I join their circle, not caring that I totally interrupt Lauren in the middle of a sentence. "Where is Cokie Mason's bra? She's about ready to kick my butt over it."

Julie laughs, nervously. "Oh, well...Price Irving has it,"

My heart stops momentarily. "Price Irving?" I repeat. It figures. Price would be enough of a pervert to buy used lingerie.

"Good luck getting it back. Paul said he's _really_ into that bra,"

"Price Irving has Cokie Mason's bra?" asks Lauren, puzzled.

"Ask for it back," suggests Erica.

I stare at Julie and bite my lip. No one except Emily and Mary Anne know what happened between me and Price after Homecoming. I can't ask him for anything. I can barely stand to be in the same room with him.

"I can't ask him for it," I whisper. My face flushes with embarrassment. "I just can't."

The four of them look at me, curiously. Julie shrugs. "Let Cokie deal with him," she says.

I nod. Yes, Price Irving can be Cokie's problem, not mine.

"Are Pete and Mary Anne back together?" Grace asks, craning her neck around Lauren.

Erica, Lauren, and I turn around. Over in B-Lot, Mary Anne's climbing into the front seat of Pete's Saturn. Rick Chow and Ross Brown are with them, getting into the backseat. Mary Anne doesn't even look our way. She went back to ignoring me after Friday night. The only thing she said to me all day Saturday was "excuse me" when she knocked me into a table covered with Play-Do sculptures. I think it was an accident, but the apology wasn't sincere at all.

"I don't think so. Pete would tell me. He's still in love with her though. Or he thinks he is," Lauren says. She hugs her books tight to her chest and smiles. "Isn't Ross adorable? We're going to the Winter Ball together. I asked him during government."

Erica sighs. "Lucky you. I wish someone would ask me. There's no way I could ever ask a boy," she says, wistfully. I don't think Erica has dated anyone in high school. I know that Lauren and Austin Bentley dated for a long time last year, then afterward Lauren dated Robert Brewster for a very short time. It's funny because even when Lauren and I had conversations of substance, we never talked about Robert. Now I wonder what things he told her about me.

"I suppose Ross Brown is okay. If that's the best you can do," says Grace, snottily. She flips her red mane over her shoulder and sits a little straighter. "I'm going to the Winter Ball with Kyle Weston. He's a sophomore at Duke University. Our parents are friends."

Erica and Lauren roll their eyes. I have to fight the urge to do the same. Grace never dates anyone from SHS. She always has to find someone different and better.

"I'm not going," I inform them.

"Good. Neither am I. The Winter Ball is stupid. What kind of ball is held in a gym?" Julie snorts. "Trevor Sandbourne asked me. I told him I'd rather shave off all my hair and eat it."

"The Winter Ball is _not_ stupid," Grace and Lauren say in unison. Then they glare at each other.

We stand around talking for another five or ten minutes, then Grace and I leave in her Corvette. Grace acts like there isn't this thing hanging over us. She prattles on about the Winter Ball, about her dress and her shoes and her hair, and about Kyle Weston and how deliciously cute he is. I nod and say all the right things when really I want to scream at her, "_Let's talk about something real, Grace! Let's talk about this burden you've unloaded on my shoulders!_" Of course, I remain quiet and hope the urge eventually goes away. Someday I'll wake up and it will be missing. I'll be thankful and live my life.

Grace smiles and waves when I glance at her from the porch. I smile and wave back. Inside the house, the telephone's ringing. I hear it as I turn the key. The answering machine is picking up when I walk into the kitchen and grab the phone off the wall.

"Hello?" I answer, breathlessly.

"You will not believe who called me at work today!" Mom cries without any greeting.

My heart leaps into my throat. My first thought is Mrs. Prezzioso. My second thought is Dad. "Who?" I manage to gasp.

"Marian Bernstein!" Mom exclaims and my heart returns to its regular position, its pace steadying. "The Bernsteins and the Sterns are planning a ski trip to Vermont. Marian Bernstein wanted to know where we stayed that summer you became so ill. Can you believe the nerve of that woman? She chews me up and down over that party you threw for Emily and now she calls like nothing ever happened!"

I wrap the phone cord around my hand. Emily said her mother has a short fuse, but rebounds quickly. I bet Emily and I are allowed to be friends again, were allowed to be weeks ago, and Emily never mentioned it. "What did you say?" I ask Mom.

"What could I say? I was speechless at her absolute nerve, Stacey. I told her where Uncle Lou's cabin is and gave her the name of the nearest lodge,"

"That's it?" I reply, surprised. I thought Mom had more guts than that. She can't possibly be intimidated by Mrs. Bernstein!

"Yes, that's it," Mom says in her regular voice. She sounds a little embarrassed, like she knows what I'm thinking. "Oh. Mrs. Bernstein says you owe her some money."

I smack my palm to my head. Jenny Prezzioso's medicine. I forgot. "I'll go pay her," I promise.

Mom's quiet on the line for a second, then clears her throat. "Nick and I met with the counselor today," she says. Oh yes. I'd forgotten about that too. Or perhaps blocked it out. Mom told me this morning that she had to take a late lunch hour, so she could make the appointment.

"How was it?" I ask, playing the part of the good daughter.

"It went very well. I think Marjorie can really help Nick with his communication skills,"

I raise an eyebrow. "Um...isn't the counselor supposed to help both of you?"

"There's nothing wrong with my communication skills," Mom replies, sounding almost offended. Oh yes. This is pretty much doomed from the start. Erica's right. I have nothing to worry about. "And I'm not a nag either," Mom tells me, which seems rather out of nowhere.

So, Mr. Prezzioso thinks she's a nag. At times I would agree with that assessment.

"I should get back to work. I have a lot to catch up on," says Mom. We say our goodbyes and hang up.

I feed Paddy, then fix a quick snack for myself. When I'm done, I rinse off my plate and let Paddy out the back door, then run upstairs to change. I wore tan slacks and a new navy blue blouse today. I bought the blouse on Saturday with my store discount. I'm supposed to be saving for Christmas gifts and for Mom's coffee table replacement, but after Mary Anne and the Play-Do incident, I needed some cheering. I throw the slacks and blouse into the hamper and pull on a pair of faded jeans and a SHS sweatshirt. It's much more comfortable.

I retrieve my bicycle from the garage, hop on, and pedal down the street. I've put a lot of miles on my bike the last few weeks. I hope I'm not riding it forever. Mom has to restore my car privileges at some point.

I ride downtown to the Bernstein's pharmacy. It's time to settle my debt, or else Mrs. Bernstein may patiently nag me the rest of my life. I chain my bike to the rack, then push open the pharmacy door. It's warm inside. The Bernsteins are nowhere in sight. I stand at the counter and ring the bell. Mrs. Bernstein appears from the stock room. She's wearing a huge white and baby blue sweater, twice as wide as she is. Her glasses are perched at the end of her straight, thin nose, a gold and plum beaded chain hanging from them, swinging against her face. She looks like a very studious insect.

"You didn't have to rush right down," she tells me, taking her place behind the register.

"I'm sorry that I forgot to pay you," I apologize, opening my wallet.

"Quite all right," replies Mrs. Bernstein, punching a key on the register. "Ah...I'm out of tape. Just a minute." Mrs. Bernstein ducks down behind the counter, then pops back up with a roll of white register tape.

"I hear you're going skiing," I say because it's the first thing I think of. If I stand silent too long I might crack and say something I'll regret.

Mrs. Bernstein peers at me over her glasses. "Yes, Bill and Jeanie suggested it. Apparently, Julie thinks Emily needs a vacation. Bernie and I agree. Emily has worked so hard lately. She deserves a break. We're leaving after the holidays, so it won't interfere with school."

So, Julie knows something's wrong despite her protests and dismissive comments about Emily being crazy. Why can't Julie admit it outright? She could be such a help in lifting this burden from me.

Mrs. Bernstein punches a few keys on the register, then peers up at me again. "That will be seven fifty-nine," She holds out her hand and waits patiently while I dig through my coin purse. "Where are you going to school next year?" she asks.

I shrug and drop the fifty-nine cents into her open palm. I rattle off the names of all the schools I applied to. "I don't have a preference," I tell her.

"Emily's going to Georgetown,"

"She got her early-admissions letter?" I almost shriek. Even though Emily and I aren't on the best of terms, I want this for her. She wants it so badly. She needs it.

"Not yet," answers Mrs. Bernstein, silencing my bubbling excitement. She closes the register and tears off my receipt. She holds it out to me. "Would you like your receipt?"

I shake my head and slip my wallet back into my purse. The door chimes behind me. I turn to see a group of teenage boys about my age walk in and glance around, nervously.

Mrs. Bernstein frowns. "Kids keep coming in to ask if we have at-home genital warts tests. Doesn't anyone pay attention during sex education? I'm thankful Emily is so level-headed. And that her friends are such nice girls," Mrs. Bernstein's frown deepens, very disapprovingly. If only Mrs. Bernstein knew, about Emily, about all of us.

"I'll see you later, Mrs. Bernstein," I mutter, turning to hurry out. If I ever seriously considered talking to her about Emily's problem that thought has died in my mind right now. There's no way I could look into her eyes as she peers over those glasses and tell her the truth. That doubtful, disapproving stare would do me in. No wonder Emily's so afraid. No wonder Mom's so intimidated.

Something must be done. I'm wasting so much time figuring out what. I should talk to Mr. Bernstein. I should talk to the Sterns. Someone has to have the answers. Someone has to steer me right.

I ride down Rosedale Road. I pass the Bernsteins. I pass the Sterns. Both houses are dark. I continue without stopping. I've made my decision. I will go to the only sane adult left in Stoneybrook. The only adult who seems to have the answers to every question.

I pedal furiously until I reach Slate Street, flying down the block until braking hard in front of the Pike's house. Mrs. Pike is in the driveway, bent forward into the trunk of her station wagon. There are a few grocery bags tipped over near the back.

"Hello, Mrs. Pike," I greet her.

She turns around, startled. She's wearing her oversized brown cardigan and wraps it tight around her. We haven't spoken since the night of Emily's party.

"Hello, Stacey. How are you these days?"

I shrug. "Do you need some help?"

"Oh, well, Margo and Claire are coming back - " she starts, but I jump off my bike and let it fall onto the grass.

I gather two of the bags in my arms while Mrs. Pike holds the last one on her hip and slams down the trunk. I follow her through the open front door. The Pike house is surprisingly quiet. It's not at all like the days when I baby-sat here. Back then I was met at the door by a stampede and a rush of excited voices. Those days are past and I'm a little sorry.

Margo and Claire are in the kitchen, partially hidden behind the counter, which is covered in paper grocery bags. There must be at least two cart loads of groceries here. Mom and I probably buy half of this in a month.

Margo looks at me from around a grocery bag. "Planning another party anytime soon, Stacey?" she asks me in a lightly mocking voice. She smiles.

"That's enough, Margo. Upstairs, both of you. Time to start your homework," orders Mrs. Pike, waving them off.

Claire juts her bottom lip out in an exaggerated pout. I wait for a tantrum to come, but it doesn't. Margo grabs Claire by the arm and pulls her out of the kitchen. Margo glances back at me with narrowed eyes, then disappears from sight.

I lean forward against the counter, resting my elbows on it. Mrs. Pike's unloading the grocery bags and paying no attention to me. Or maybe she's waiting for me to speak. "Can I ask your advice about something, Mrs. Pike?" I ask her.

"Of course," she says, pulling a head of lettuce from a bag.

"You'll keep my confidence, right?"

"Of course,"

I take a deep breath and think of the best way to begin. Do I give a little away or everything at once? "What do you do if you have this secret that you're carrying around and it gets heavier everyday and all you want to do is tell? But you can't because you're afraid you'll hurt someone who's actually hurting herself by having the secret in the first place? Is it wrong to tell a secret that isn't yours?"

Mrs. Pike stares at me. "What?" she asks, thoroughly confused.

I lose my nerve. "Nevermind," I tell her.

Mrs. Pike looks at me, curiously. "What's wrong, Stacey? Who has a secret?"

I do. I have so many, many secrets. Their weight is crushing me. I can't breathe. "It's nothing, Mrs. Pike. I shouldn't have bothered you,"

Mrs. Pike pushes aside a lock of light brown hair that's fallen in her eyes. She's unconvinced. She's glimpsed something in me that I can't hide away again. "Stacey...if there's something wrong, you can tell me," she says, slowly.

I stare at my hands and shake my head. I've made a bigger mess of things, dragging Mrs. Pike in. I want to unload this burden, but it suddenly seems unfair to dump it on Mrs. Pike. Who else is there? Who else? I shake my head again.

"Have you spoken to your mother?"

"She has her own problems right now,"

Something passes over Mrs. Pike's eyes, interest or concern. Maybe both. It's fleeting, but I barely catch it. "I am certain your mother would want to know if something's bothering you," she says. It's odd hearing Mrs. Pike say "your mother" and not her name.

"It's nothing. Really. Stupid teenage stuff. It'll pass. Really," I sound so convincing. Mrs. Pike glances up at me as she stacks boxes of macaroni. What she must be thinking. She probably assumes I have genital warts like half the senior class.

"Emily Bernstein - " I blurt out before my voice catches in my throat. That's all I say. My throat swells shut and stifles me. There's nothing more.

Mrs. Pike has her arm lost inside a bag. She stares at me expectantly, waiting. She doesn't realize I have nothing else to offer. That's as far as my confession goes.

"I'm sorry I wasted your time," I whisper and hurry from the kitchen, walking very quickly. Once I'm out the front door, I sprint across the yard to my bike. Mrs. Pike calls after me. She's running down the front steps when I hop on my bike and pedal away, fast as I can.

"Stacey!" she shouts after me, but I'm already around the corner, out of her sight.

* * *

A couple hours later, I'm stretched out on my bed, the phone pressed to my ear, trying to push Emily Bernstein from my mind. Grace and Erica are both on the line because the Blumbergs have three-way calling. Lauren's on too because she's at Erica's house on the second extension. Grace does not have good news.

"I'm not allowed in New York City unsupervised," she tells us, glumly.

"What?" I exclaim. As a native New Yorker such a concept seems unreal to me.

"My parents said they'll buy the tickets, but I need adult supervision at the concert. They say I'll be raped and murdered. I'm also not allowed to ride the train without an adult,"

Lauren laughs hysterically and drops the phone.

"Are you serious?" I gasp. Since when did the absent, overindulgent Blumes become so unreasonable? "Grace, this is ridiculous! I've been on the streets of New York without an adult practically since I started walking!" This is not actually true. I don't mention how Mom used to lead me around the city by a phone cord wrapped around my waist.

Lauren has finally stopped laughing and come back on the line. "You already knew you couldn't go, didn't you?" she accuses Grace. "You knew and didn't say anything! Well, I'm not going to the concert with your parents!"

"My parents don't want to go to the concert!" Grace snaps back. "And neither do I!" She slams down her phone.

"Lauren!" screeches Erica. "The Blumes might have still bought us the tickets! What are we supposed to do now?" Erica wails mournfully. I've never seen this melodramatic side of her.

"They weren't going to buy us the tickets," argues Lauren.

"We'll just have to get the tickets another way," I tell them, calmly.

Erica groans. "It's hopeless. There's only one vendor who still has tickets. They won't even hold them for me. How am I supposed to get to New York to buy them?" She wails again. It sounds like she's been mortally wounded.

"You need to get a hold of yourself," Lauren says, sternly.

"Let's discuss this tomorrow at lunch. I still need to talk to my mom," I tell them, quickly tiring of their arguing and hysterics.

"Okay..." Erica says with a heavy sigh, then she and Lauren hang up.

Downstairs Mom's banging around in the kitchen. She's playing that tape I hate, the one she plays only in her best of moods. I groan and fall back on the bed. I set the phone on my stomach and dial Grace's number.

"Are you okay?" I ask when she answers on the first ring.

"I hate Lauren Hoffman," she growls.

"She's sort of a loon,"

"She's sort of a - " Grace catches herself and pauses. "Not a very nice person," she finishes.

"Well, don't feel bad. My mom's not going to let me go to the concert either," I tell her, rolling off the bed. I carry the phone over to the bookcase, where I left my chemistry book sitting on one of the shelves. "Did Mrs. Dowery give your class that stupid worksheet? I can't figure out problems ten to seventeen. The book is no help."

"Um, yeah, I already did it. Just a minute," Grace replies. I hear her flipping through the pages of a notebook.

I toss the chemistry book on the bed and start to walk away from the bookcase, glancing out the window as I pass. I stop. I walk closer to the window and push the curtains completely apart. My heart skips. Mrs. Pike is charging across her backyard toward mine, still in that brown cardigan, a hand raised over her head, waving. What is she doing? I set the phone on the sill and push the window open. Down below, I hear a garbage can lid clang, then Mom appears in my line of sight, walking slowly toward the back fence, hands on her hips.

I pick up the phone and interrupt Grace, who's reading to me from her notes. "I have to go," I bark and hang up the phone.

I stand at the window, staring down at the backyard. I can't hear what's being said. Mrs. Pike keeps brushing the same lock of hair out of her eyes. It looks like she's doing all the talking. I should have known better. Parents never keep things to themselves. Mom shakes her head and Mrs. Pike frowns, then both turn and walk away. No arguing, no shouting. I wonder what Mrs. Pike said, what Mom said in response. Mom's hands are still on her hips. I can't see her face.

The back door bangs shut. There are some noises in the kitchen - cabinets opening, silverware hitting against a pot - then Mom's footsteps on the back stairs. I close the window and pull the curtains shut, then jump onto the bed and open my chemistry book. Mom's footsteps draw closer until they stop outside my door. This is it. I have to lie or tell the truth. Mrs. Pike has unknowingly forced my hand. Mom knocks lightly on the door.

"Come in!" I call out, my voice straining.

Mom opens the door and comes into the room. She's still in her work clothes, a brown tweed skirt and cream-colored blouse. There's a small red stain near the second button. I wonder if she knows. "Homework?" Mom asks and I nod. Mom turns around my desk chair so it faces me on the bed. She sits and crosses her ankles. "Dee Pike flagged me down while I was taking out the garbage," she informs me.

I turn a page in the chemistry book. I'm not even in the correct chapter. "Oh? Does she want to make up?" I reply, nonchalantly, even though I shake inside. It's coming. In a second Mom will ask, "_What's this secret? What is wrong with Emily Bernstein?_" and I'll have to make my choice.

Mom stiffens in the chair. "No, Dee doesn't want to make up," Mom says in a thin voice. She smoothes back her hair. "She wanted to know if you're all right. She said she spoke to you earlier and you seemed rather...out of sorts. Agitated."

I glance up. That's it? There's nothing more?

"Is something the matter, Stacey?"

I manage a light laugh. "No, nothing at all. I don't know what Mrs. Pike is thinking. We spoke, but only for a few minutes. I was winded from my bike ride. Maybe that was it,"

Mom frowns and stares down at her hands. She doesn't believe me. "Stacey, I'd hate to think you'd rather confide in Dee Pike than in me. If something is bothering you, please tell me,"

Oh, Mom, if you only knew what you are asking of me.

I smile and hope it looks more real than it feels. "There's nothing, Mom," I insist.

"Are you upset that Nick and I are still seeing each other?" Mom asks. She doesn't sound annoyed. She wants to understand. She's trying.

"I want you to be happy," I answer, which is the truth. I do want her to be happy. I just think she could be happier with someone else.

Mom watches me closely, then nods. "All right," she says, standing up. "Dinner will be ready in a couple minutes. Finish what you're doing, then come down." Mom leaves without shutting the door.

I feel sick. I've become such a liar. Emily's a liar and a thief and she's made me her accomplice. I almost wish Mrs. Pike had told Mom exactly what I said. She could have left the door wide open for me to rush through with the truth. I can't do it on my own. Obviously, I need my arm twisted before I can cry out with anything but lies.


	33. Chapter 33

I can't take anymore. I've been slowly boiling over for days, weeks, months. I've reached my end point. It's time to unload some of the weight from my shoulders. I can't stand around, waiting for someone to stumble on my secrets and graciously relieve their burden. I can count only on myself and it's time I took action.

I feel almost sorry for Julie as I watch her walk up my drive, her pitbull-lab mix, Holly, straining on a leash in front of her. Julie does an odd kind of trotting skip to keep up. She's wearing that gray velour jogging outfit that I hate. She looks so unsuspecting and innocent that I really do feel guilty, nearly guilty enough to back down. Nearly.

I made the decision last night as I struggled to concentrate on my pile of homework. So many thoughts distracted me until I felt half-mad and almost burst into tears right at my desk, right over my Calculus homework. I knew then that I could not continue like this, all bottled up and ready to burst. It was time to let go of something.

"What do you have to give me?" Julie asks when I open the front door.

I hold it wide open for her and Holly. "Um...you'll see. I didn't know you were bringing your dog,"

"Mom said I had to take her on her walk. It's Paul's turn, but of course he's at basketball practice," Julie says and rolls her eyes. Holly pulls her into the house with a jerk. Great. All I need is Julie's dog destroying my house.

"Let's go out back," I suggest, leading Julie and Holly through the living room. Paddy's coming out of the dining room, sashaying with his tail pointed straight up at the ceiling. He flees when he sees Holly, racing for the back stairs. He perches at the top and hisses. Holly barks and strains on the leash, threatening to drag Julie up the stairs.

"Shut up, you stupid dog!" Julie shouts, giving the leash a hard yank.

"I made some hot tea. Do you want some?" I ask, holding the back door open.

"I don't like tea," Julie replies, bending over to unhook Holly's leash. Julie gives Holly a gentle push with her sneaker and Holly takes off into the yard.

Julie's sitting in a white wicker chair when I come out onto the patio a few minutes later. I hand her a mug of hot chocolate, then dust off the yellow cushion of another wicker chair, and sit down, taking a cautious sip of my peppermint tea. It's very hot. I blow on it before daring a second tiny sip. I glance over at Julie, who's watching Holly run the length of the back fence, barking like mad at the Pike house. The Pikes' basset hound, Pow, is curled up in his bed on the patio, asleep and oblivious. Julie blows on her hot chocolate. Her legs are pulled underneath her. She looks so relaxed.

I prepared a small speech during Math Club, but the words melt from my mind. I stare at Julie's profile, biting my bottom lip. She may not be the right person for this, nor the best person, but she is the most unburdened. She doesn't have pre-existing worries or secrets or commitments swirling around in her mind, clouding it and crowding it and slowly driving her insane. She is not the right choice or the best choice. She is the only choice.

"I need to talk to you about Emily," I tell her. There's no need to dance around the subject and ease into it. I don't have the patience for that now. I have to dive in without hesitation, or else I may remain silent and bottled forever.

Julie turns her head slowly and regards me, coolly. She must have picked up on something in my voice because her posture and expression have altered. Julie's more observant than I credit her for. "Oh, really," she says, her voice as cool as her expression.

"Look...I know you and Emily have been friends practically forever. You're not going to like what I have to say, but someone else needs to know. I've been carrying this around with me and I can't do it anymore. So, please, just listen to me,"

Julie looks straight ahead and starts messing with the tortoiseshell barrette fastened at the nape of her neck. "I'm listening," she says.

Something has changed in the last thirty seconds. It's like Julie has anticipated what I have to say and is already in the process of blocking it out. Julie only hears what she wants to.

"Emily has a problem," I say because I've opened the door and it's time to finally rush through. I'm passing the baton and Julie will take it. What she does with it later, that's not my concern. "We've been commenting all autumn about how erratic she's become. We've blamed it on stress, but it's so much more than that. I don't know the details and I don't know when it started, but Emily's addicted to some kind of pills."

Julie looks at me in disbelief. "Emily _Bernstein_?" she sniffs. "Are you kidding me?"

I shake my head. "She's stealing from her parents pharmacy. I caught her. She even admitted it. She says the pills are helping her, but you only have to look at her to know they're destroying her. She has all these excuses and rationalizations. She won't listen to me. What are we going to do, Julie?" And the weight lifts from my shoulders.

Julie scrunches her face into an odd expression and pulls her head back slightly. She's looking at me like I'm a bug that's just popped out of her salad. "Why are you telling these lies about Emily?" she asks, not even angrily, just perplexed.

I freeze and stare at her. This was not expected. "What?" I reply, the question barely escaping past my lips.

"Why are you lying?" Julie asks again.

"I'm not lying," I tell her.

We stare at each other, both too bewildered to even be upset or offended. Why doesn't she believe me? Why would I make up stories about Emily?

"Emily said you'd do this," Julie says, finally.

"Do what?"

"Tell lies about her. I thought she was just being crazy, you know like she's been lately. I didn't think you'd actually do it. Why are you so jealous of her?"

My jaw drops and my voice sort of sputters in my throat. It takes a few seconds to fully grasp exactly what's been said. "I am _not_ jealous of Emily!" I protest, almost chuckling.

Julie's bewilderment quickly turns to visible upset. "Well, I didn't think so either! That is until now when you've said just the kind of thing Emily predicted. I know you've had a rough time this year, but that's no reason to tell lies about your friends. No one's life is perfect, not even Emily's. It may seem that way to you, but it's just not true. And just because Emily's going to Georgetown and you're going to be stuck at Stoneybrook U. is no reason to - "

"I'm not going to Stoneybrook U.," I cut in. This entire conversation is absurd. Julie can't possibly believe a word she's saying. "And I'm really sick of hearing about Georgetown! Emily hasn't even been accepted yet!"

Julie gives me a look like I've just confirmed my jealousy. "Well...she will be. And _of course_ you're going to Stoneybrook U. Everyone knows it. We talk about it all the time. You can't go anywhere else because you're not speaking to your dad and your mom can't afford it. Are you the only person who hasn't thought of that?"

My mouth goes dry. No, I hadn't. I never considered that Dad might not pay for college when I've completely excluded him from my life. He's excluded me from his for years, more or less, but maybe all that matters is that I've done it back. This didn't occur to me. Even Emily Bernstein in some drug-induced haze thought of it and more importantly, managed to use it against me.

Once again, I've underestimated Emily. Her outward appearance is deceiving. She's still the same clever girl. She knew I couldn't keep her secret. She knew I couldn't shelve it for long. It would gnaw at me and my conscience until I let it out. So Emily made a pre-emptive strike. She planted these little seeds in Julie's mind and now I've done exactly what Emily knew I would. She did her part and I did mine. I've been completely blindsided. I never saw this coming.

"Emily is on drugs," I insist. For once, I speak the complete truth and it's all I have and it isn't even worth much.

"You're lying," Julie replies, voice rising. It must be the closest Julie's ever come to yelling at me. She's mad. I can tell by her body language and the edge in her voice, but she doesn't lose control. Julie is a curiosity. "I'm not listening to any more lies about Emily. Holly, come here!" Julie stands quickly and knocks her mug to the ground. It shatters on the cement in large shards of white ceramic. Julie starts to bend her knees to gather them up, but thinks better of it and steps over them instead, charging toward Holly. Julie grabs her roughly by the collar and fastens her leash.

Julie pulls hard on the leash and starts for the side of the house. I'm losing her. This isn't how I imagined our conversation at all. I follow her, not knowing what to do. So far all my steps have been miscalculated, wrong. Emily's been a step ahead of me this whole time. I wonder who else she started poisoning against me, what else she could possibly have said.

"You're being absurd," I tell Julie, as calmly as my shaken nerves allow. "You can't honestly believe I'm jealous of Emily."

Julie pauses at the gate, her back to me. She pauses only a few seconds, then reaches for the latch. She walks through the gate and lets it swing slowly closed behind her. She doesn't look back.

* * *

Mom is making cherry-glazed pork chops for dinner. This is not necessarily something I care to eat, but that doesn't matter because she's not making them for me. They're for Mr. Prezzioso. I just happen to be hanging around, prepared to grudgingly eat anything Mom happens to serve. After I toss the salad and peel the potatoes, Mom tires of my hanging around and sends me upstairs to fold laundry in her bedroom. She's irked at my observation that she cooks a lot more since Mr. Prezzioso started coming around. Lauren Hoffman tells me this is the second most important tactic a divorced woman has for successfully hooking a serious boyfriend. She has yet to tell me the number one tactic, so I figure I don't want to know. Lauren Hoffman might be crazy, but she also might have a valid point.

Mr. Prezzioso arrives while I'm folding washcloths. I flip on Mom's radio so I don't have to hear the faint sounds of his and Mom's voices drifting up the stairs. When I finish, I stack Mom's laundry in the basket and take my own back to my bedroom. I turn on my own radio and lay on the bed, waiting for Mom to call me for dinner. I've gone through the motions of normalcy since Mom came home. I need a brief relief from the act if I intend to not slip during dinner. I've become quite the master at masking the truth. If I keep it up, it'll either wear me down or become so ingrained that I never give it up.

I lay flat on my back and twist my head sideways to stare at the telephone, silently willing it to ring. It will be Julie and she'll say, "_Okay...you were right. I was wrong. Here is what we'll do about Emily..._" I'm not sure I seriously think Julie would ever say such a thing.

I've become spoiled. When I fought with Mary Anne, Julie and Emily and Grace, they all chose me. I should have realized I can't be chosen every time. Julie's loyalty is to Emily above me. Until this school year, they were very close. I understand, I guess. I did what I set out to do. I passed the Emily problem on to Julie. It's now hers to do with as she pleases. She can tell her parents or the Bernsteins or anyone she chooses. Or no one at all. It is no longer my choice.

My friends are disappearing. I don't have Mary Anne. I don't have Emily. I don't have Julie, not as long as she's stuck in her avoidance and denial pattern. I started off the year with a wonderful group of friends. Now I have only Grace. The criminal.

Mom calls me from downstairs. I barely hear her voice over the radio. I swing my legs off the bed and trudge downstairs, not caring that I'm still wearing gray sweatpants and a long-sleeved t-shirt that reads _SHS Phys. Ed._ I'm pretty sure my hair's a mess. I don't seem to care.

"I don't know what's wrong with her," I hear Mom say to Mr. Prezzioso on the other side of the kitchen door. I walk in and Mom stops talking. She and Mr. Prezzioso are standing very close to each other by the sink. I don't know why she called for me while in the middle of a conversation about me.

Mom smiles at me and shoves the salad bowl into Mr. Prezzioso's arms. "Let's eat," she says, walking swiftly to me and slipping an arm around my waist. "Your mascara is smudged all under your eyes," she whispers, steering me into the dining room.

"It's a new trend. I'm starting it," I reply, sliding into my chair.

Mom smiles vacantly at me while fingering the gold chain around her throat. She does this until Mr. Prezzioso holds the plate of pork chops out to her. Mom definitely knows something's wrong. If she starts hounding me, I might snap or give in. I'm not sure which would be worse.

I chew a few tasteless bites of salad, then set down my fork. "Is Dad going to pay for college next year?" I ask, bluntly. I'm still rather selfish. I've thought more of that than about Emily and Julie.

Mom's ice tea glass is poised at her lips. She sets it down. "I don't know. You'll have to ask him," she says.

"I don't want to ask him,"

"You have a problem then," Mom says. She looks over at Mr. Prezzioso, then back at me. "Is this why you've been so upset lately?"

"No. Julie Stern just pointed it out to me today,"

"I wouldn't worry too much, Stacey. Spring is a long way off and nothing needs to be decided before then," Mom replies. She looks down at her plate and begins cutting her pork chop. "But...keep in mind, Stoneybrook University is a good school. I wouldn't mind having you here another year."

"But I don't want to go to Stoneybrook University,"

"Call your father then,"

That isn't even an option. Mom knows that. I glance at Mr. Prezzioso, who's making a point not to look at either Mom or me. I think he'd definitely mind my being here another year.

"Could we get a loan?" I ask him. He works at Stoneybrook Bank after all. He had an affair with my mother. The least he can do is arrange for me to get some money.

"I suppose so," he says, then looks over at Mom, like he's confirming that he gave the correct answer.

Mom sets down her fork and knife. "Stacey! We don't need to discuss this now. Why are you suddenly so interested in this topic?"

I shrug. I can't tell her the truth, that I want out of this town. It's draining me. I'm crumbling within its confines. I'd very much like to run away and leave my problems behind me. I think they might not follow. Maybe their echoes, but not the problems themselves. I can't make a fresh start here. I keep trying, but things only get worse. Next autumn feels so far away. If I know I'll still be here at that time, sitting right in this very seat, at this table with Mom and Mr. Prezzioso, knowing that might drive me over the edge.

"We'll discuss it later," Mom says, gently.

I nod and pick at my salad.

"Speaking of loans," Mr. Prezzioso says, more to Mom than to me. "John Pike was at the bank today. I ran into him on the elevator. He came in to file papers for a loan. He and Diane are sending Mallory back to boarding school."

"Are you serious?" I exclaim, dropping my fork.

"Yes," he says, looking confused as to why I might think he wasn't serious.

Mom cocks an eyebrow at Mr. Prezzioso. "Surely, they're not sending her back to Riverbend Hall," she says.

"John didn't say," Mr. Prezzioso answers.

"Of course they're not," I inform them. "How can they? Mallory was expelled."

Mom chuckles and sips her tea. "Mallory wasn't expelled," she replies.

"Yes, she - " I start, then let my response end there. Mallory Pike lies. I know that now and should have realized already that her expulsion was a lie too. That day in the spring of her eighth grade year when she waltzed into my bedroom and leaned back against my desk and announced she'd just been expelled from Riverbend Hall - that was a lie, a performance. I believed her because I had no reason not to. Why did I never look back and reconsider?

"Mallory told you she was expelled?" Mom asks me.

I shrug and try not to appear bothered. "So, why did she leave Riverbend Hall?"

"I can't tell you. I promised Dee," Mom responds, taking another sip of her tea. I could point out that she has no more loyalties to Mrs. Pike, especially when Mrs. Pike was not loyal to her. It would be useless. Mom won't budge. "I assumed Mallory told you the truth," she says, then turns to Mr. Prezzioso and begins a new conversation, so I won't press her and attempt to wear down her misplaced loyalty.

My Aunt Beverly calls while we're clearing the table. She's married to Mom's brother and since we rarely hear from anyone in Mom's family, Mom shuts herself in the den to take the call. Mr. Prezzioso and I finish clearing the table in silence, then move into the kitchen, where we wordlessly slip into a clean up routine. I transfer all the leftovers into tupperware, then Mr. Prezzioso rinses and puts them in the dishwasher.

"You know..." says Mr. Prezzioso while he's holding a pot and I'm scooping mashed potatoes out of it and into a square tupperware container. He clears his throat. "Christmas is coming soon. I've not bought your mother's gift yet. Maybe you could come with me to pick it out."

I almost drop the tupperware. Lauren Hoffman warned me this was coming. That Mr. Prezzioso would try to become my friend, so I would lower my guard and make life easier for him. Both times Lauren fell for this ploy, she ended up with a new stepfather.

"Did my mother put you up to this?" I ask, even though I realize how rude I sound.

"No," Mr. Prezzioso replies, turning on the faucet. He's not looking at me, so I can't tell if he's lying. "I'm going to Washington Mall tomorrow after work," he says.

I snap the lid on the tupperware container. "I have plans. I'm working on a big French project tomorrow. It'll probably take all day. Sorry," I add, as an afterthought, although I'm not sorry at all. Mom and Mr. Prezzioso aren't duping me that easily.

Mr. Prezzioso starts to say something, but Mom sweeps into the kitchen, so he closes his mouth. Mom comes to stand by us. "Aunt Beverly called to invite us for a ski weekend at their cabin. She said to pick any weekend and they'd meet us there. I told her we'd think about it," she informs me, then turns to Mr. Prezzioso. "My brother and his wife have the cutest cabin..." She drones on about the summer we visited the cabin and I became so ill. It's really one of my least favorite stories and I wish Mom would stop telling it.

"I'm going up to my room. I have homework," I interrupt and leave before Mom points out how rude I am.

Mom comes up to my room about fifteen minutes later. I'm laying on my bed, flipping through the new copy of _#1 Fan_. I intended to do my homework, but found I don't have the energy or interest.

"Are you feeling all right, Stacey?" Mom asks when she enters my room (without knocking). She walks over to my bed and feels my forehead. "You don't look well. I'm calling Dr. Werner tomorrow and setting up an appointment over Christmas vacation."

"It's not my diabetes," I mumble.

Mom sits down on the bed. "Then what is it?" she wants to know.

"I'm just having a bad day," A bad day that turned into a bad week into a bad month into a bad season.

"You're upset about college,"

I shake my head. I've decided that's not worth my energy right now. I can put off worrying about it for a few months. It doesn't have to nag at me until then.

Mom pats my leg. "I remember what it's like to be your age. All the drama and the secrets. I know there are things you don't think you can tell me. I've always wanted us to have a better relationship than I have with my mother. She is impossible. I don't think I'm so bad,"

"No, you aren't so bad," I agree, softly, still staring at the magazine.

Mom watches me a moment, weighing what to say and not say, how hard to press me. "Nick and I are going to the movies," she finally says. "Come with us. There's plenty of time for you to change...and fix your make up."

I shake my head again and Mom frowns. "Stacey, I really wish you'd make more of an effort. Nick and I are, but you won't meet us halfway. What is so horrible about my dating Nick? Is it really that he's Jenny Prezzioso's father? Is it the affair? What is it?"

I roll onto my back and look away. I shrug. I don't know.

Mom falls silent. I feel her eyes on me. "I'm sure you never gave your father this kind of trouble. I'm sure you never insisted on calling Samantha 'Miss Young'. Why is it so different for me?" Mom stands and walks to the door. She turns back and says, "We're leaving in twenty minutes, if you change your mind." She shuts the door behind her.

It actually takes them thirty minutes to leave. I wonder if Mom's waiting for me to come to my senses, or at least feel sufficiently guilty, and agree to see the movie with them. But I stay in my room and eventually they leave. When I hear the lock click on the front door, I go into the bathroom and peel off my sweats and shirt, which are really my old gym clothes. I turn on the shower, then brush my hair thirty times before stepping beneath the warm spray. I stand there for almost half an hour. When I come out, I brush my hair another thirty times, then blow it dry. I look much better and feel much better. I change into soft pink flannel pajamas and manage to finish my homework without distractions breaking my concentration.

I stay awake until after midnight when I hear Mom come in the front door. She shuts the front door very quietly. I should wait at the top of the stairs and apologize. But I don't. I shut my English book and turn out the light. I listen to Mom's footsteps on the stairs. Her bedroom door shuts and I roll over and close my eyes.


	34. Chapter 34

"Miss Hilliard says it's not too late to apply for financial aid. I may never have to rely on my father for anything again," I tell Grace on Thursday after school. I slip some forms into my Calculus folder. I just picked them up from the guidance counselor's office. I don't know why I didn't think of this sooner. Just as I don't know why I expected Dad to not break every promise he ever made me.

Grace leans back against the locker beside mine. She has her compact held in front of her face as she reapplies her dark mauve lipstick. "Don't you think that's sort of like begging for money?" she asks.

I scowl into my locker. "No, Grace, I don't," I reply, snappishly, sliding my French and Calculus books into my bag.

Grace snaps the compact shut. "Sorry," she says, slipping it and the lipstick tube into the front pouch of her book bag.

"I appreciate the sensitivity and understanding. I'm finally taking control of something in my life. A little support, please," I say, pulling a gray sweater off the top shelf and shoving it into my bag. I've been meaning to take it home to wash for weeks.

"O-_kay_,"

I'm not being fair to Grace. She is the last of my friends. She listened patiently all day while I whined about every unjust aspect of my life. She listened without complaint. "No, it's all right," I tell her, shutting the locker door and readjusting the book bag strap on my shoulder. The halls are deserted, even though the final bell rang less than ten minutes ago. The school clears out quickly, especially this close to Christmas break. Everyone's anxious for a little freedom. "Have you talked to Emily lately?" I ask Grace, as we're walking down the stairs. Grace and I are both wearing black boots that click loudly in unison on the steps.

"I don't even know when I last _saw_ Emily. Does she still even go here?" Grace replies. "I saw Mr. Bernstein a few days ago when I picked up my mother's prescription at the pharmacy. He seems rather proud that Emily killed her social life. Funny, my parents always _liked_ that I have friends." Grace shoves open the front doors and we step out into the cold afternoon air. Grace shivers and pulls her black and brown plaid coat tight around her. It matches her skirt. Another recent gift from her parents, I suspect. A bribe.

"It's going to snow soon," I say, as we stamp across the parking lot. "Mom and I are going skiing in Vermont in a couple weeks. You should come. You can meet my cousins. They're pretty nice." I realize I'm getting rather desperate to ensure that I have someone. I may be no better than the Blumes, trying to prod Grace with bribes.

"I'm not much of a skier," says Grace, unlocking the passenger side door of her Corvette.

"Well, there's a lot more to do than ski. There's a pond for skating and there's a lodge nearby with a rec center and a couple restaurants. It's fun," I say, sliding into the passenger seat and latching the seat belt. Mom and I discussed the trip on the drive to school. She seems excited. I sigh. "I'm just glad she hasn't mentioned inviting Mr. Prezzioso along. I told you, didn't I, about what she said to me last night?" I ask, even though I know that's all I talked about during lunch period when Grace and I were hiding in the library.

Grace nods slightly, as she backs out of the parking spot.

"I don't know what she expects of me. Like, why does she have to drag my father into every problem? How I treated Samantha has nothing to do with how I treat Mr. Prezzioso. I liked Samantha and Mom shouldn't hold that against me. I'm sure that Mr. Prezzioso has his good points, but - "

"Look, Stacey," Grace interrupts when we've pulled out onto the street. She reaches over and switches off the radio. "I'm going to be honest with you. I agree with your mom. It shouldn't be all right for your dad to do something, but not her."

I turn to stare at her, incredulously. Who's side is she on? "They're two completely separate situations!" I protest. "Samantha didn't have an insane ex-husband or demonic children!"

"Is that really the problem? His ex-wife and children? It's not like you have to deal with them on a daily basis. You never see them,"

"Who's side are you on?" I snap. This is who I am left with? Someone who'd rather defend my mother than me?

"I'm on your side. I just think it's the wrong side," Grace replies, glancing at me quickly before turning her eyes back to the road. "How did you feel when your dad started dating Samantha?"

"You know how I felt. You know the story," I answer, irritably. When I found out about Samantha, way back in eighth grade, Dad and I were on vacation. Dad brought her along, but hid her away, so I wouldn't know about her. I caught them together and Dad and I fought. "I was mad," I tell Grace.

"Because he mislead you. You weren't mad that he was dating," Grace points out.

"What's your point?"

"I don't know. I'm only trying to figure out why you're so upset,"

"Haven't you listened to a word I've said?" I ask, exasperated. Over Thanksgiving, Grace agreed with me wholeheartedly. I don't understand why she's changing her mind now. "They were about to break up, you know, until _your_ mother interfered," I say, accusingly.

Grace sucks in her breath and bites her lip. "That was just because...because...well, she didn't ask your mother to dump all that on her! My mom may have nudged your mom in that direction, but do you really think had they broken up that they wouldn't have just ended up back together? For whatever reason, this is who your mom wants to be with. You need to accept that and move on. This isn't the end of the world. It's not going to kill you,"

"You don't know the whole story,"

"Then tell it to me!"

I shake my head. I can't do that. "You'd feel differently if it was one of your parents,"

"But it's not,"

Grace turns onto Birch Street and then through the entrance of Lauren Hoffman's apartment complex. I wasn't lying last night when I told Mr. Prezzioso that I had to work on a project for French class. Of course, Lauren Hoffman is my partner because I don't have anyone else to partner with. I suppose I was wrong yesterday when I said Grace is the only friend I have left. I have Lauren, for whatever she is worth.

Grace pulls into a parking spot and peers out at the apartment complex from over the steering wheel. "I can't believe Lauren still lives here. I remember coming here for her seventh birthday party," Grace says, then turns to me. "I don't want to fight with you, Stacey. You're my only true friend." She places her hand on my arm, gently. It's a nice gesture coming from Grace.

"No, it's okay. I'm just...there's a lot going on right now. I'm not thinking clearly. I shouldn't have snapped at you," I reply, unlatching the seat belt. "Thanks for the ride." I open the door and climb out of the car.

"Call if you need me to pick you up," Grace leans across the seat and looks out at me. "And Stacey," she says, "I really just want you to be happy. You seem nothing but _un_happy these days. Don't lose yourself in too much misery. It doesn't help. I know." Grace smiles, sadly, the smile of someone who knows she speaks the truth, but is too far gone to heed her own advice.

I nod and shut the door. I start up the pathway toward Lauren's apartment, then turn and wave to Grace, hoping she knows I'm not really angry with her, even though she's added to the burdens that have me weighted down. But I asked for that. I can't very well blame her for giving me what I wanted. Grace waves back and smiles, a bit fakely, but I think at least, she's not angry with me either.

When I turn back toward the complex, Lauren's coming in the other direction, a stack a mail in her hands that she's flipping through. She doesn't notice me. I raise my arm and call out to her.

"Hey Stace," she greets me when we meet halfway up the path. "Erica just dropped me off. You haven't been waiting, have you? You should have just come with us," Lauren says, leading me toward the stairs of her apartment.

"Julie and I are arguing. Didn't she tell you?"

Lauren turns her head around, three steps up the stairs. "No, she didn't say anything. I didn't know anyone ever argued with Julie," Lauren remarks, then starts up the stairs again. "You would have been safe. Julie stayed after school with Emily Bernstein."

I snort and mutter, "Figures," under my breath. If Lauren hears, she doesn't comment.

"I have to warn you," Lauren tells me, as she slides her house key into the lock. "That it's Thursday, so the place is a little messy. Mom and I clean on Saturdays." Lauren pushes the door open and flicks on the living room light.

I've never been inside Lauren's apartment. I'm surprised how unLauren-like it appears. Before I knew Lauren - _really_ knew Lauren - and she was no one except the ASB President, some girl I sat with in French class, she struck me as very Emily Bernstein-like. Well-organized and collected, clean and flawless in appearance. The apartment doesn't fit her. It's well-worn and homey and smells sharply of cinnamon covering the faint scent of stale coffee. There's a weeks worth of newspapers piled on the couch and videos stacked on top of the television and an open box of vanilla wafers tipped over on the coffee table. It all looks so normal and ordinary, which Lauren Hoffman is not.

"It's not that messy," I promise her, as I slip off my parka and toss it onto the dark brown recliner.

Lauren glances around, frowning, as she shrugs off her trenchcoat, which is a dark forest green with a wide beige belt. I'd almost kill for it. "It's not that bad, I guess," she agrees, laying the coat across the arm of the couch. She strides toward the kitchen. "Would you like something to drink?" she asks. She picks up a half-filled coffee pot and dumps it in the sink.

"Do you have a diet coke?"

"We don't drink diet pop," she replies, sounding apologetic, so I don't giggle at her using the word "pop".

"I'll just have water then,"

"Come on, we'll get my stuff," Lauren says when she's handed me a glass of ice water. She has an unopened can of raspberry soda in her hand and tosses it in the air as she leads me to the back of the apartment. The narrow hall to Lauren's bedroom is lined with framed photographs, almost all of Lauren. Several include a man with his face neatly trimmed from the picture. Lauren's father or one of her stepfathers. I decide it's best not to ask.

Lauren's bedroom is a shock. I remember back in the days of the BSC, we used to tease Claudia about the disastrous state of her room. Claudia's room does not begin to compare to Lauren's. It's like a tornado swept through, lifted all Lauren's belongings into the air, and dumped them haphazardly and unceremoniously back into the room. I have never seen so many clothes. Clothes piled on the unmade bed, clothes spilling out of dresser drawers crammed so full they no longer shut, clothes tightly packed into the open closet, hanging over furniture, and even more thrown on the floor. A small pathway has been cleared from the door to the bed and another from the bed to the closet.

"And I thought I had a shopping problem," I say, nearly breaking my neck tripping over a wedge sandal.

Lauren stands in the center of the room and looks around, like she's unsure what I'm talking about. "Well, most of it's from thrift stores," she explains, which really doesn't account for the absolute chaos of the room. "And a lot I get from my cousin, Michie. She's a junior at the University of Delaware. She's addicted to shopping, but only wears everything a maximum of three times. Then she gives it to me. Look, she gave me this over Thanksgiving." Lauren picks up a jean jacket from the floor. It has a brown fur collar. She slips it on and spins around. "I'm wearing it to the Skeeball concert. My father finally sent October's check, so I'm ordering a new outfit from the Karbergers catalogue. I'd show it to you, but I don't know where it went." Lauren searches the floor with her eyes. "Did Erica tell you? She's ditching tomorrow. She and Mrs. Blumberg are taking the train into New York to buy the Skeeball tickets."

This is news to me. But then, I did hide in the library throughout lunch. That's the only time I see Erica. "I hope she's not buying a ticket for me. I can't go," I inform Lauren. I asked Mom yesterday while she prepared dinner. I'd barely finished asking when she chuckled and said, "absolutely not" and that was the end of it.

"We'll think of something," Lauren promises and before I can argue, drops to the floor and disappears under the bed. I've heard enough about Lauren's crazy schemes to know I want no part of one. But there isn't much use arguing with Lauren's pant legs and the soles of her shoes.

I expect Lauren to reemerge with the catalogue or some article of clothing, but instead she holds a hot pink plastic pencil box. I guess she suddenly remembered that I'm here to work on a project, not to watch her model clothes, like we're real friends or something. I drop the necklace I've been admiring back onto the desk.

"Oh, do you like that?" Lauren asks. "You can have it. I never wear it anymore."

"No, that's okay. Let's get started,"

"No, really, you can have it," Lauren insists, setting the pencil box on the desk. She grabs the necklace and sort of whirls me around, whipping the necklace around my throat and clasping it.

I pull my hair free and straighten the necklace. It's dark green beads on knotted bronze wire. "Thanks," I mumble, even though I feel odd taking anything from Lauren. She's trying to win me over. It's just like her fake fainting spell during French class.

In the living room, Lauren clears off the coffee table. Our project is to create a mini-guide book of Southern France. I pull a package of card stock paper from my book bag, along with my french-english dictionary. Lauren and I already did most of the translations during class. Lauren dumps the contents of the pencil box on the floor between us. Colored pencils and pens roll beneath the table. We already have a rough outline finished, but go over it again, making minor adjustments. Lauren has a stack of pictures that she ripped out of a real guidebook, so we make room in the outline for those.

After we've worked for about half an hour, Lauren goes into the kitchen and fixes a snack. When she returns, she sits back down beside me, and almost shouts in my ear, "This totally slipped my mind! After school, when I was leaving chemistry, I saw Cokie Mason throw Price Irving up against some lockers!"

I stop pressing on the picture I've been gluing down. "Are you lying?" I ask since Lauren hasn't proven herself to be the most truthful person.

Lauren doesn't appear offended. She crunches down on a carrot stick and shakes her head. "No! It really happened! Cokie must have bionic strength because she _threw_ him. Then she slapped him! I heard her telling Bebe that they had to find Paul Stern next!"

Maybe Cokie Mason actually is brain damaged. She's having an awfully delayed reaction over a bra that's been missing for over a month. "Cokie should have slapped him a few more times," I tell Lauren. I bite into a carrot stick.

Lauren picks up a salmon-colored pencil and sneaks a quick glance at me. She starts shading in some lettering. "You know..." she starts, then laughs this strange, high laugh. "Price Irving was saying the weirdest stuff about you after Homecoming."

I drop the carrot stick. It falls onto the floor. I turn to Lauren. "What did he say?" I demand.

Lauren closes her mouth. I'm not in the mood for any of her games. "What did he say?" I repeat.

"He said you jumped him at Dorianne Wallingford's party and unzipped his pants with your teeth!" Lauren exclaims in a quick rush of breath. She's held that in a long time.

"What?" I shriek. "I did not!"

"No one believed him!" she insists.

I don't even want to know who "no one" includes. With Lauren Hoffman involved, probably half the school. My insides grow hot with anger, then I do something unexpected. I burst into tears.

"That isn't how it happened!" I shout. How _dare_ Price Irving. After what he assumed of me, it wasn't enough he made me feel like a whore, he had to make me sound like one too. "That isn't how it happened!" I repeat, then I can't help myself, the truth pours out of me. The only people I ever told were Mary Anne and Emily. Now here I am, revealing my humiliation to Lauren Hoffman. Looney Lauren Hoffman the megaphone of SHS.

"That's disgusting!" Lauren screams when I finish. She leaps up and stands with her hands on her hips. "You just let him get away with that?" she yells.

I wipe my eyes with the back of my hand, embarrassed that Price Irving drove me to tears. "Well, I threw an alarm clock at him,"

"That didn't stop him from telling lies about you, did it? Oh my God, when Price told me that, I thought he was just a moron. He's so much worse! He's scum! We have to punish him!"

"It happened almost two months ago. I have greater problems now," I say. Even I'm surprised at how quickly I've recovered from that spontaneous breakdown. Maybe that's what I needed. Maybe it wasn't even about Price Irving. He simply pushed me over the edge. I pick up a pair of scissors and begin removing the jagged edge from a picture of ST. Pons de Mauchiens.

This response does not sit well with Lauren. "You can't just let him get away with it! You're obviously still upset! Price is a jackass and needs to pay the consequences. You can't just let guys get away with this stuff. You can't let them walk all over you!" Lauren cries, pounding her hand onto her open palm. "I dated Austin Bentley for _five_ months last year and when I found out he cheated on me with that skank Dorianne Wallingford - "

"I didn't know Austin cheated on you," I interrupt.

"Well, I didn't broadcast it to the whole school. I didn't let him get away with it either. He always liked his stupid Trans Am better than me, so I took a golf club and smashed the headlights and tail lights. That showed him!"

"_You_ did that?" I gasp.

"Of course. Then after I dumped him and he went around school calling me a cold fish, I broke all the windows!"

I stare at Lauren, open mouthed. Oh my Lord. Lauren is beyond looney. She is completely insane.

Lauren starts pacing the floor, wringing her hands. "See, we can't just sit around. What are we going to do about Price? We _could_ bust up his car. He drives that nice champagne-colored Lexus. However, with two of us, I think we can come up with something much more clever. Maybe something really painful,"

The phone rings before Lauren can suggest arson and poisoning his cat. Lauren goes into the kitchen to answer, leans back against the refrigerator, and speaks in her normal voice. She laughs and coils the cord around her wrist. I watch her and all I can think is that I _really_ need to stay as far away from Lauren Hoffman as possible.

"That was my mom," Lauren says when she hangs up. "She and my auntie are going Christmas shopping. She won't be back until late. That's good because now we'll have more time to work. I don't think we'll finish tonight though. You can come back this weekend."

"Yeah...maybe,"

Lauren sits back down and picks up the salmon-colored pencil again and resumes her shading. We work in silence for awhile. She doesn't mention Price again. But from the corner of my eye, I can almost see the wheels turning in her head. I should never have said anything to her, but strangely enough, am glad I did.

* * *

Lauren and I call it a night around seven. It's way past my dinnertime and I'm supposed to stick to a strict schedule. Despite Lauren's insistence that I can eat dinner with her, I decline. After today, I'm not sure I want to eat anything Lauren offers me. Of course, then I risk upsetting her, which may be worse. I bet that golf club's buried in her room somewhere. 

I call Mom to pick me up, then Lauren and I pull on our coats and wait outside on the stairs. Lauren doesn't need to wait with me, but she insists. We lean against the railing while Lauren talks about preparations for the Winter Ball. Lauren and Grace are both on the decorations committee. It seems they've been fighting a lot. Once, while we're waiting, Mr. Prezzioso jogs past us and disappears around the side of his building. He doesn't see us.

"He does that every night," Lauren tells me. "And every morning. He's _always_ jogging. Mom thinks it's weird. Of course, she doesn't like him. That's because he - " Lauren catches herself and stops.

"Because he what?" I reply, irritably. I'm not in the mood for games.

"Well, because he cheated on his wife. It's nothing personal against your mom," she adds, hurriedly. Lauren's face has become slightly pink. I think that, for once, she did not have the conversation completely scripted. She didn't intend to bring this up. "My mom just has this thing. About guys who cheat. My dad cheated on her for a long time. She didn't find out until he gave her crabs. It's a sore subject."

I shift my eyes sideways toward Lauren. She's sort of like the demented version of Julie Stern. Apparently, no topic is out of bounds. "Robert Brewster cheated on me back in eighth grade. It really hurt," I say because I'd rather not discuss Mom and Mr. Prezzioso or Mrs. Hoffman and her STD history.

"When Austin cheated on me, I wasn't hurt. Just mad," Lauren replies. She tucks a stray blonde hair beneath her beige headband. "I think all guys cheat. They do it because they get away with it. It's like it's acceptable because they're boys. Everyone just makes excuses for them. It's not fair. I really hate boys sometimes."

"So do I," I whisper, like I don't want anyone to overhear. "They use us up and toss us aside. They get to be heroes and we get to be whores."

We're silent as Mr. Prezzioso circles past again.

"I still think Ross Brown's adorable," Lauren says. "He'll probably cheat on me, too. And then I'll have to smash something of his."

I set my right elbow on the railing and rest my chin in my hand. "Has your mother had a lot of boyfriends?" I ask Lauren.

Lauren laughs. It's sort of bitter and empty. "Tons. She's rarely without one. She's been remarried twice. She'll probably remarry again. She doesn't learn."

"My mom says she doesn't think she'll ever marry again," I say. This is true. Mom has said so many times since the divorce. She said so as recently as last month before she and Mr. Prezzioso were even arguing. It gives me hope that Mr. Prezzioso and Jenny Prezzioso will never be permanent fixtures in my life.

"I wish you luck that that's true," replies Lauren.

The phone rings inside the apartment.

"You should get that. I'll see you tomorrow," I tell her. I almost add, _See how nice a normal conversation can be? When you aren't playing games or acting crazy?_ I bite my tongue and watch Lauren disappear into the apartment. Lauren and I could be great friends, if only she weren't certifiable.

I'm standing near the curb, still waiting for Mom when Mr. Prezzioso comes back around. This time he sees me and slows to a stop. He's wearing navy running shorts and a sweat-soaked Chatham College t-shirt. Despite Julie's endorsement, his calves don't look that special to me.

"What are you doing?" he asks.

"Waiting for my mother," I reply. "I'm doing a project with Lauren Hoffman. Do you know her?"

Mr. Prezzioso makes a face like he just ate something truly revolting. "Cecily is hideous," he says in disgust.

I almost correct him, then realize he must be speaking of Mrs. Hoffman, not Lauren. Mr. Prezzioso certainly doesn't waste words. "I've never met Mrs. Hoffman," I tell him. "Lauren's a total loon."

"I think she spies on me from her balcony,"

I laugh, very loudly. Mr. Prezzioso looks confused. Of course, that's how he typically looks when he speaks to me. "She's probably watching us right now," I reply and at the same moment, we both turn in the direction of Lauren's apartment. I'm not sure, but I think I see a flash of forest green duck inside.

Mr. Prezzioso runs his hand through his damp hair. I play with the zipper on my parka.

"Did you go to the mall tonight?" I ask.

"No,"

"Well...I work at the Kid Center all weekend, plus I have a couple babysitting jobs. But...if you want to wait until Monday...I guess I can go with you," I don't know why I changed my mind. It changed very suddenly without my thinking about it. Maybe I never should have said no in the first place.

Mom's station wagon finally turns into the parking lot. I don't know what took her so long. When I open the passenger side door, I see that she's wearing at least half her dinner on the front of her shirt. Well then, I suppose she has an excuse for being late. Mr. Prezzioso comes around to her window and leans in. All I hear Mom say is "that damn cat..." then I stop listening. There's a brown lunch sack on the passenger seat with my name written on it. I recognize Julie's straight, precise print.

"I found that crammed halfway through the mail slot. You've no idea how long it took me to pry it out," Mom says, annoyed, then turns back to Mr. Prezzioso.

The bag is tapped closed. I tear it open and shake the contents onto my lap. My copy of _A Thousand Acres_ falls out, the book Julie borrowed last week. Also there's a plain white envelope. The pace of my heart quickens as I lift the flap. Inside, I find a small stack of five and ten dollar bills and a sheet of pale pink stationary. It has Julie's initials monogrammed at the top. The note reads: _Here is the money Emily and I owe for your mother's new coffee table. Emily did not steal her share._ Julie signed the note with only a "J' which seems rather informal for what is - at least for Julie - a rather unnecessarily nasty note.

"What was in the package?" Mom asks when we're driving home.

I hold up the book. The money and envelope are crammed in the pocket of my parka.

"What were you and Nick talking about?"

"It's a secret," I reply, staring out the window.

"Hmm," is all Mom says, sort of half-annoyed and half-pleased, like keeping secrets means I'm on the right track.


	35. Chapter 35

Second period on Monday, I'm browsing through magazines in the library. I've secured a rare pass from the study hall teacher, a small victory for any student, and am grossly misusing the privilege by brushing up on eight-year-old nail care tips. I'm supposed to be preparing for a speech on the fifth amendment. Of course, I took Government over the summer and hope Coach Keller never learns that.

I'm flipping through an old _Good Housekeeping_ and wondering why the SHS library stocks it, when I notice a curly orange-red ponytail passing through the next aisle. I close the magazine and peer through a gap between the back issues of _Time_ and _Seventeen_. Mallory Pike's back is to me. She's reading the call numbers on the spines of a row in the non-fiction section.

"What are you doing in here?" I ask her.

Mallory jumps and spins around, clutching her hand to her chest. She breathes sharply. "Stacey?" she says, squinting at me. "You scared the hell out of me," she hisses, walking closer.

"What are you looking for?" I ask.

Mallory narrows her eyes a bit suspiciously, like I'm the one who's lied to her for years and not the other way around. I've never given her reason not to trust me. "Did Emily send you in here to spy on me?" she asks.

"Um..._no_," I reply, edgily. "I'm not Emily's little minion anymore, thanks."

"I'm _not_ her little minion either," says Mallory, just as edgily.

"If you're in here doing her grunt work, then you're her minion,"

Mallory scowls. "Well, I won't be her little minion very much longer. I'm not coming back after Christmas break," she tells me, then pauses dramatically, waiting for me to question her.

"So I've heard," I say, simply.

Mallory looks disappointed.

"Your dad told Mr. Prezzioso. I suppose you're not going back to Riverbend, are you? Not after being expelled and everything,"

Mallory's ears turn pink, but she maintains her coolness. "No, of course I can't go back," she says, nonchalantly. "Mom and Dad found a school in New Hampshire. The Altman Academy for Girls. I have to wear a uniform. It's some sort of religious school. Presbyterian or Episcopalian or something. Just what I always wanted. An entire school full of Grace Blumes. I'll probably come out just as hideous."

"It might be good for you," I reply, coolly. "Maybe it will cure you of your constant lying."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Mallory snaps, although her ears redden deeper.

It's surprisingly easy to remain calm. Despite all Mallory's lies, I'm more vaguely irritated than disappointed or angry. Amongst all my other problems, Mallory's dishonesty is a minor inconvenience and she'll be gone soon. "I know you lied about Riverbend," I tell her. "You were never expelled. My mom told me."

The rest of Mallory's face catches up with her ears. "Oh...well...what did she tell you?"

"Nothing. She wouldn't break your mom's confidence,"

"Good! Because it's none of your business!" Mallory says, not looking so embarrassed anymore. More upset. "And...it was highly suggested I leave. That's the same as being expelled!"

"It is not!" I argue.

"See?" Mallory hisses, angrily. "You were never my friend. You're just like all the others. You turned on me. You used me. You're laughing at me behind my back!"

I stare at her, dumbstruck. "_What_ are you talking about?" I hiss back. "I've never tried to be anything but your friend, Mallory Pike! In the Baby-Sitters Club, when you were a dorky eleven year old, when you left for Riverbend, when you came home for vacations and even Jessi was too busy for you. I've always tried to be your friend, even when you were a total embarrassment! And when you were expelled - excuse me, highly suggested to leave - I stood by you. Mary Anne and I, we were your only friends. I even begged Emily Bernstein to let you on the _Gazette_!"

Mallory has taken on the desperate, paranoid look of a caged animal. "You weren't my friend," she insists. "You pitied me and I made you feel better about yourself. You were only nice to me because we're neighbors...and so you could laugh at me! No one has ever really been my friend. You're all fakers!"

"Ladies!" someone shouts. It's the library aide, Mrs. Something-or-other. She stands with her hands on her hips near the divider between my aisle and Mallory's. "You are _yelling_," she scolds. "And not doing any work. Please return to your classrooms." She taps her foot impatiently, looking down my aisle, then down Mallory's.

Mallory shoves her face into the gap we've been talking through. "Mom and Dad say Altman Academy is my fresh start. It's not going to be any different than anywhere else. Everywhere is filled with fakers and users like you!" Mallory whirls around and storms off.

"You're crazy, Mallory!" I call after her, then receiving a reproachful look from the library aide, toss my bag over my shoulder and follow behind her. But not too close.

* * *

It's a day for unfortunate encounters.

After fourth period, I stop off in the second floor restroom on my way to the cafeteria. The restroom is silent and deserted, except for one locked stall. I'm digging through my bag in search of a tampon when I hear an odd sound coming from the stall. It's sort of muffled, covering up either gasps or sobs. I bend to the side, checking under the stall. All I see are two gray pant legs and shiny black shoes.

"Are you okay in there?" I call out.

The sound stops, but no one answers. I move closer to the stall, curiosity getting the better of me. I press my eye to the narrow crack between the door and the wall. I should have learned after Mallory, but I never learn. The girl has her back partially turned to me. I see the collar of her lavender blouse, her neatly curled brown hair, and a slight glint off her pearl earring. Emily Bernstein.

"I know it's you in there, Emily," I say, my eye still to the crack. "I can see you."

"Are you a spy now?" Emily asks, not turning around. "Mallory Pike said you were spying on her in the library."

"Mallory's paranoid. What are you doing in there? I always catch you doing the most interesting things. Are you stealing the toilet?"

"Very funny,"

"It's important that I maintain my sense of humor, considering how _jealous_ I am of you," I reply, surprising myself with how bitter I sound.

Emily spins around and reaches for the lock. Startled, I jump back, out of the way, but not quick enough. Emily smacks me in the nose with the door. She doesn't apologize, just marches past me to the sink and runs her hands beneath the faucet while I look on, holding my hand over my nose.

"It's not enough you're spreading lies about me, you have to break my nose, too?" I ask her, annoyed.

"What did you expect me to do?" she demands, twirling around to face me. I'm startled again, taken aback by the full sight of her. Over the past few weeks, I've grown accustomed to her ghostly appearance, the deep, dark circles under her eyes. It's shocking how she's changed so quickly. Her face is thinner and her lavender blouse hangs shapelessly on her frame. She's sickly pale, made even more striking by the contrast between the whiteness of her cheeks and the blush she's attempted to hide them under. I see so many marks of the old Emily Bernstein - the pressed and tailored clothes, the pearl necklace and earrings, the neatly styled hair - but I am not fooled. She's trying to disguise the new Emily in the costume of the old. It isn't working.

"You look terrible," I tell her, bluntly.

"That's awfully rude,"

I laugh. "You expect me to be _nice_? You look like a well-dressed corpse. That's about the most polite thing I can say,"

"I understand why you're upset, Stacey. If you'd only kept your mouth shut, if you'd only kept my secret. I never would have had to say anything. I knew you were bursting to tell. Self-preservation, Stacey. I had no other choice," Emily tells me, straightening her blouse, then pauses. "You got Grace," she says, like that's some great consolation. "You had me worried. I thought you'd tell someone useful, like your mother."

"Julie's not a moron, Emily. I don't think she even believes your stupid lie. She may have a wall built up around her, but she can't hide behind it forever. One day she'll stop pretending, just like one day your parents will stop being blind, and everyone will see the truth,"

"The truth? The truth according to Stacey!" Emily hisses. "There's nothing wrong with me. I have everything under control! I always have everything under control! Leave me alone! And leave Julie alone, too. She's _my_ best friend. Stop feeding her your misconceptions. You don't know what you're talking about!" Emily turns and starts to stomp away.

"Who are you going to steal drugs from at Georgetown?" I ask, casually.

Emily stops and her shoulders stiffen. Then she charges through the restroom door, knocking right into someone coming in. It's Mary Anne. Her face is blocked by Emily, but I recognize her pants, those ghastly green plaid ones. I start to duck into a stall, but it's too late. Mary Anne's inside and sees me.

All thoughts of hiding quickly fly from my mind. I rush to Mary Anne like we're still friends, unable to control myself. "Mary Anne!" I shriek. "What happened to your face?"

There's a large bruise on the left side of Mary Anne's face, in a sort of crescent shape, cupping around her eye. It's a dark purple-black. I reach out, but Mary Anne bats my hand away.

"I tripped over Tigger on the stairs and fell into the banister. It's not a big deal," she says, attempting to smooth her hair over the bruise.

I stare at her in disbelief. She expects anyone to believe that? "Did someone hit you?" I ask.

"I told you, I tripped. Accidents happen," Mary Anne replies, irritably. "We're not friends anymore, Stacey. Stay out of my business." Mary Anne disappears inside a stall and shuts the door.

I stand there, waiting, but Mary Anne isn't coming out until I leave. So, I give her what she wants and walk out of the restroom. I go downstairs and use the first floor restroom, which is crowded with a group of juniors smoking in the handicapped stall. I don't meet anyone I know, which is a relief.

After leaving the restroom, I hurry to the cafeteria. Grace and Erica are at our usual table, eating their lunches and not speaking. Across the room, I see Julie sitting with Paul and some of the basketball team. Two tables away, Lauren and Pete Black are eating with the ASB. I consider marching over and demanding an explanation from Pete. Maybe I'm lazy and selfish, but I've had enough confrontations today. Instead, I walk over to my table and pull out the chair beside Grace.

"Anyone else see Mary Anne today?" I ask them, opening my lunch bag.

Erica shakes her head. "She wasn't in government."

"She wasn't in English either," says Grace.

As I unpack my lunch, I recount my brief meeting with Mary Anne. When I finish, Erica has her hand clamped over her mouth. Grace appears less than appalled.

"Maybe she really did trip over her cat," she suggests. "My grandmother once tripped over her dog and broke a hip."

"She was awfully defensive," I point out.

"She'd probably just been grilled by the women in the office. I'd be defensive, too. It's no fun knowing everyone's going to talk about you,"

Erica frowns. "I agree with Stacey. Something's not right," Erica tips a handful of sweet tarts into her cupped palm, then pops them all into her mouth. That and a grape soda appear to be her entire lunch. "Is she back with Pete?" Erica mumbles through her mouthful of candy.

"Pete wouldn't hit Mary Anne," scoffs Grace, biting into a celery stick.

"Maybe not..." I shrug. If there's anything I've learned this year, it's that no one acts as I expect. Who knows what anyone's like beneath the surface. "There's really nothing we can do anyway." I start unwrapping my sandwich. Mary Anne's already put in a request to Mrs. Grossman that we work opposite shifts at the Kid Center. She doesn't want me in her life in any way, no matter how minor the interference. I don't even recall what she's punishing me for. I bet she doesn't either.

"Your lunch is disgusting, Erica," Grace says, a bit snottily.

Erica takes a swig of grape soda. "You're eating a pound of celery,"

"I'm on a diet," snaps Grace. "The Winter Ball's in two weeks. I have to fit into my dress."

"Well, I'm in mourning for Skeeball. I went all the way to New York and the concert's sold out!"

"Still crying over the concert, Erica?" inquires a voice from the head of the table. We glance up. It's Lauren. She slides into the chair next to Erica and folds her hands. "I have a plan."

"I really don't want to hear it," says Grace.

I shake my head. "I really don't want to either, Lauren. No more crazy schemes for me," I tell her. "I heard someone stole everything out of Price Irving's locker."

"Everything except his jock strap. And I think that person is just getting started. Now, about the concert. It isn't a crazy scheme at all. In fact, my mother suggested it. We can just buy tickets from a scalper!"

"Yes!" cries Erica.

"Have fun," says Grace.

"Um...sorry, Mom and I are going skiing in Vermont this weekend,"

Erica's mouth drops. "_This_ weekend?" she squeaks. "But the concert's this weekend! We're all supposed to go!"

"I already told you, Mom said no,"

Lauren smiles, happily. "This works out perfectly. Mrs. McGill will go skiing and you can sneak off to New York with us," Lauren says this like it's the simple, obvious solution.

I set down my sandwich. "Um, Lauren? _I'm_ going to Vermont, too. I can't sneak off anywhere. I'm going to be in _Vermont_," I speak very slowly, as if Lauren is a rather stupid child.

Lauren waves off my objection. "We just have to figure out a way for your mom to go to Vermont without you,"

Erica nods, enthusiastically. "Right. Yes," she agrees.

"I don't think you should lie to your mom again," says Grace, chewing on a bite of celery. "Remember what happened last time?"

How could I forget? The last time Mom left me alone, someone almost died. Erica and Lauren were there. They should realize Mom will never trust me alone again. Not so soon.

"Don't worry, Grace," Lauren says, brightly. "Us big girls will ride the train into New York and your mommy can drop you off at the concert."

"You aren't goading me into joining your stupid plan,"

Lauren glowers at Grace. "You were a lot more fun in middle school. When did you turn into such an old lady?"

"Will you two stop bickering?" I snap, holding my head in my hand.

"Yes, there's no reason to argue. We're going to Skeeball!" Erica shouts, throwing her arms in the air and ignoring the curious glances from the next table.

Suddenly, I've lost my appetite. I stuff the remainder of my lunch back into the bag. I want to go to Vermont just as much as I want to see Skeeball. And I really don't have to luxury of choosing between the two. I'm going to Vermont. There's no other option.

* * *

Grace and Lauren are arguing again after school when I walk out of Math Club.

"What now?" I sigh, adjusting the strap of my book bag on my shoulder.

"Lauren has chosen the ugliest colors for the Winter Ball!"

"I have not! There is nothing wrong with midnight blue and silver. They're wintery!" Lauren argues. She faces me. "Grace wants violet and silver. She's been outvoted, but she _won't shut up._"

"I'm not listening to this the entire car ride," I inform them.

Grace and Lauren glare at each other, but shut up. No one speaks as we leave the school and cross the parking lot to Grace's Corvette. As I hold the passenger door open for Lauren, she momentarily looks as if she'd rather be force fed poison than get in. But she slides in anyway and I climb in after her, half sharing the seat, half sitting in her lap. It's an uncomfortable drive in more ways than one.

"You have a very nice car," Lauren says when Grace lets us off at the apartment complex. She sounds almost genuinely sincere. Grace must not think so because she narrows her eyes and waits for Lauren to add a "but..." Lauren doesn't say anything else, so I thank Grace and shut the door.

Lauren and I only have about an hour to work on our French project. Lauren did a lot on her own over the weekend. I've discovered she's a bit of a control freak. She hovers over my shoulder, giving unsolicited advice on whether to move a picture slightly down or to the right, and whether to color the lettering plum or fuchsia. It's a bit annoying.

At five o' clock, Lauren leaves for a babysitting job on the other side of the complex. Now that I know Lauren better, I think small children should not be left in her charge. I wait on the stairs to Mr. Prezzioso's apartment. We arranged for me to meet him here. Mom thinks I'm going to the mall with Grace.

Mr. Prezzioso shows up ten minutes after five. He's wearing a three-piece suit. It's weird seeing him dressed like he did back when the BSC babysat his kids. I almost ask why he isn't wearing an ascot. I don't think he'd understand the joke.

"I'm just going to change," he tells me, unlocking the door to his apartment. He holds it open for me. I step in, slowly, and glance around. "You can sit down," he says, then disappears into the hallway. I hear a door shut.

His apartment looks exactly like Lauren's with the same long living room and L-shaped kitchen. I'm surprised to recognize the furniture. It's all from the Prezzioso's old house. The off-white couch and armchair still look stiff and uninviting. There's a gray blanket folded neatly across the back of the couch. I lift it up. Underneath the blanket is a large patch of dried green paint. I wonder if it's the work of Mrs. Prezzioso or Jenny. Either way, I bet it was intentional.

I wander into the kitchen and start opening the cabinets. Mr. Prezzioso was married to Mrs. Prezzioso for far too long. Everything is lined up in straight, precise rows. In alphabetical order. It's vaguely disturbing. I check inside the refrigerator. Before Dad married Samantha, he only ate take out and his refrigerator held only expired milk and condiments. Not Mr. Prezzioso's. Not only is it filled with unspoiled food, it's just as neatly organized as the cabinets. The soda cans are all even turned the same direction. Surely, Mom has seen this. I don't know how it couldn't have freaked her out.

"Are you looking for something to drink?"

I jump and slam the door closed. Mr. Prezzioso is standing under the archway to the hall. He's changed into gray slacks and a navy sweater. He looks slightly less goobery than usual.

"No," I say, casually. "Just...looking."

"Um..." he says, looking unsure of how to comment on my obvious snooping. "Are you ready?" he asks, apparently deciding to let it go. He crosses the living room and holds the door open for me.

"Your car smells like bananas," I inform him when we're sitting in his Toyota sedan.

"It does not," he responds, a bit snappishly.

I turn and press my nose against the seat. I inhale. "I think it's in the upholstery. What did you do to your car?"

"I don't smell anything,"

I let the subject drop.

Washington Mall is half an hour from Stoneybrook. A half an hour can be a very long time. Mr. Prezzioso asks about my day. What can I tell him? That Mallory Pike had a paranoid fit in the library, Emily Bernstein freaked out at me in the restroom, Mary Anne has a giant bruise on her face, and Lauren and Erica are creating some harebrained plot to sneak me into New York? I, of course, lie.

After we've been silent for awhile, I ask, "What did you buy for my mother last Christmas?" For some reason, it's only just occurred to me that this isn't their first Christmas together.

Mr. Prezzioso doesn't answer for a few seconds. "A bracelet," he finally says.

"Oh," I reply. I sit and think for a minute. I turn to look at him. "Did it have emeralds?"

"Yes,"

"She said my grandmother gave that to her. I should have known - Grandma Spencer would never give away such a nice piece of jewelry. Especially not to Mom,"

Mr. Prezzioso clears his throat after a moment. "You know...Madeleine and I...we were already getting divorced last Christmas,"

I guess that's supposed to make it all right.

I don't say anything. I start messing with the controls on the radio. Mr. Prezzioso doesn't protest. He lets me change the station every thirty seconds the rest of the drive.

Washington Mall is fairly crowded for a Monday night. Not surprising since there are only fourteen days until Christmas. I'm relieved I've nearly finished my own shopping.

"I love the smell of the mall," I tell Mr. Prezzioso, inhaling deeply as we walk in the front entrance. "Where first?"

"Um...where do you think we should go?"

Ah-ha. So, that's why I've been invited along. He has no idea what to buy Mom. "We could go to the Exercise Shoppe," I suggest. "Julie and Grace broke Mom's stationary bike last summer."

Mr. Prezzioso frowns. "I don't think I should buy Maureen exercise equipment,"

"Why not?"

"She'll think I want her to lose weight,"

Okay, so Mr. Prezzioso's a tad smarter than I give him credit for. "We need a new vacuum cleaner,"

"Um..."

"There's a coat she loves at Steven E.,"

Finding nothing potentially offensive in a coat, Mr. Prezzioso and I ride the escalator to the third level. The mall's beautifully decorated like a winter wonderland. Cheery holiday carols play over the speakers. I'm a bit alarmed to realize that although I'm prepared for the holidays, I'm not excited about them. Getting into the holiday spirit has hardly even occurred to me.

"Oh, Mr. Prezzioso?" I start when we step off the escalator. "Could you not tell Mom that Julie and Grace broke her stationary bike? Mom's sort of under the impression that _she_ broke it."

"I won't say anything," he promises.

Inside Steven E., it's rather difficult to remain focused on the back of the store, where the coats are kept. I'm constantly distracted by gorgeous, expensive clothes. I wish Dad hadn't canceled my credit card before I had a chance to max it out. The coat Mom wants is gone, which isn't much of a shock. Mr. Prezzioso suggests jewelry, which was really the most obvious choice in the first place.

Mr. Prezzioso's very patient as a drag him to Macy's, Lear's, and JC Penney's. At Lear's, he's halfway through purchasing a lovely silver Gucci watch when I change my mind and make the salesman void the transaction. Mr. Prezzioso doesn't seem too annoyed. At least not nearly as annoyed as I am that the salespeople keep referring to him as my dad. After leaving Lear's, Mr. Prezzioso suggests stopping at the food court. I check my watch. It's almost seven. Mom would kill me if she knew how bad I've gotten about sticking to my eating schedule.

"I saw your friend at Uncle Ed's yesterday," Mr. Prezzioso tells me when we've sat down with our food from Tortilla Queen.

"Julie? We're not friends," I reply, taking a sip of my diet coke. I change my mind. "No, we're just fighting. Well...we had a disagreement. I told her something she didn't want to hear."

Mr. Prezzioso pours salsa over his burrito and looks unsure if he wants to know more. "What did you tell her?" he finally asks.

"Something about someone else. It's kind of a secret," I reply, spreading a napkin over my lap. "But Julie didn't believe me. She called me a liar. "

"That's rather unreasonable,"

"I know! That's how Julie is. She tries to avoid anything negative that might directly affect her. She's completely in denial. She can't admit that Emily Bernstein may not be perfect. That maybe - "

"Stacey!"

I stop ranting and turn to see who called my name. Kristy Thomas is rushing toward me, a bulging shopping bag bouncing against her side. It's amazing how much a person can change while remaining the same. Kristy's wearing her old uniform of jeans and a red turtleneck under a Christmas sweatshirt. But her hair is down and lightly curled, clipped back with a barrette. She's wearing mascara and pale pink eyeshadow and shiny lipgloss. She's the same and still different.

Kristy stops beside our table, glancing from me to Mr. Prezzioso. She doesn't look as confident as she sounded a second ago. She looks confused. "Are you...are you on a date?" she asks.

It's impossible to mask the look of complete and utter horror on my face. Mr. Prezzioso has the same problem. He coughs into his napkin, pounding his fist against his chest.

"No!" I screech, much louder than intended. "We're not on a date! He's dating _my mother_."

It's Kristy's turn to be embarrassed. Two bright pink patches appear on her cheeks. "Oh...sorry. Uh - hey, Mr. Prezzioso! How are Jenny and Andrea?" Unfortunately, Mr. Prezzioso's still coughing and unable to answer. Kristy turns her attention back to me. "So, have you heard from Sam?" she wants to know.

"No,"

"Really? Are you sure?"

"Of course I'm sure. Wouldn't I know if I'd heard from him?"

"I guess so. I just thought he might contact you. He's always going on about how much he misses you and how much he still loves you. He's always been a lot more fond of you than Janet. I mean, he kind of had to marry her,"

I blush. Some things never change. Kristy's lack of tact is one of them.

"I'm going to get some...sour cream," says Mr. Prezzioso, pushing his chair back.

We watch him walk away, then Kristy exclaims, "Oh my gosh! Your mom and Mr. Prezzioso? That's so creepy, Stace. Your mom kind of makes a habit out of dating BSC clients, doesn't she?'

"She's only done it twice," I reply, irritably.

"Claudia told me the Marshalls are splitting up. Maybe your mom can date Mr. Marshall next!"

I glare at her and take a long sip of my diet coke. I wish she'd go away. I can't believe she's standing here, laughing at me when I know such worse things about her. It would certainly shut her up if I asked if she's talked to Howie Johnson lately. I keep drinking my soda.

Kristy must catch on to my mood. "Well, David Michael and Karen are waiting for me at Just Desserts. I'll talk to you later, Stacey. Merry Christmas,"

"Merry Christmas,"

Kristy disappears into the crush of the crowded food court. As soon as she's gone, Mr. Prezzioso reappears. Without any sour cream. He doesn't ask about Sam Thomas.

When we finish eating, Mr. Prezzioso and I ride the escalator downstairs. There are three jewelry stores on the first level. We're approaching Town and Country Jewelry when I spot Mom's gift in the window. It's a garnet and pearl necklace. I immediately know it's right. I shriek and actually pull Mr. Prezzioso into the store by the arm. I wear the necklace while Mr. Prezzioso pays for it, admiring myself in a hand held mirror. Unfortunately, I think to check out the price tag only after the saleswoman has torn it off.

Mr. Prezzioso lets me wear the necklace during the drive back to Stoneybrook. It occurs to me that he's treating me like an overindulged child, like he treats his daughters. I keep lowering the visor and checking myself in the mirror, adjusting the necklace around my neck. That watch would not have done.

"Now...Maureen will like this necklace, right?" Mr. Prezzioso asks me. "You didn't just choose it because you want to wear it?"

"Of course not," I reply, lowering the visor once more. "Mom'll adore it. This is the only chance I'll ever have to wear it." I close the mirror and reach for the radio. I change the station. "You have terrible taste in music, Mr. Prezzioso." I pick up a tape from the cup holder and wave it at him. "Jefferson Starship? I think you and Julie Stern are the only two people in the world who ever bought this. No, wait. I'm pretty sure Emily Bernstein owns it too. All three of you should be ashamed."

Mr. Prezzioso actually laughs. It's strange and surprising. He catches me off guard for a moment, then I join in.

"You don't know what you're missing," he says.

"I've been to enough parties at Julie's and Emily's to know exactly what I'm _not_ missing,"

"We could listen to it,"

"That's quite all right,"

When we pull into my driveway, I take off the necklace and arrange it neatly inside its box. I set it on my seat as I climb out of the car. "Are you coming in?" I ask, leaning back inside the car.

Mr. Prezzioso looks surprised. "No. It's late. Tell Maureen 'hello' for me. She's hovering at the window,"

I turn and see Mom's silhouette on the living room curtain. The curtains part and she presses her face against the windowpane. I sigh. "Good night, Mr. Prezzioso," I tell him.

"Good night, Stacey,"

Mom throws open the front door as I'm coming up the steps. "You've been out with Nick!" she says, sounding positively delighted. "I called the Blumes. I was getting worried." Mom slips her arm around my back and leads me inside. It's a pleasant ending to a very long day.


	36. Chapter 36

I'm surprised to find Julie Stern sitting on the steps outside my house on Thursday afternoon. I've just walked home from Erica's house. Julie and I haven't spoken in over a week, but there she is waiting on my porch, knees drawn to her chest, twisting her blonde ponytail around her hand. I slow when I reach the driveway, taking small, cautious steps. Julie watches me, not saying anything. I think it's the first time she's looked at me all week. When I see her at school, huddled around Emily, ushering her through the halls, she looks the other way. I watched them this morning, crossing the parking lot arm in arm, both of them frowning, not looking like themselves. Julie gave no indication she noticed me, no indication she was ready to be my friend again. And yet, here she is, waiting for me outside my house.

"Hello, Julie," I say, carefully, stepping over her bike, fallen on its side in the drive.

Julie tugs on her ponytail, then lets it fall over her shoulder. She closes her arms around her knees. She glances at me, hesitates, then says nothing.

"What are you doing here?" I ask, stopping in front of her. I fold my arms over my chest and stand there, awkwardly. I'm not sitting down next to her.

Julie fingers the end of her ponytail. She's screwing up her courage. How odd - blunt, straightforward Julie Stern not prepared to scream her mind from the rafters. Is she here to apologize? I'm not sure if I can accept her apology. I'm not sure I can forgive her accusations.

"Well?"

Julie finally speaks. It's almost jarring to hear her voice. I'd forgotten the pleasantness of how it sounds, clear and ringing. A friendly voice. "The Bernsteins fired Mr. Malkowski, their weekend pharmacist," she tells me. She stops playing with her hair and looks straight at me.

"So?"

"They fired him for stealing," she replies and hugs her knees to her. The hot pink polish on her nails is flaking off. It matches her sweater.

"Inventory a bit off?" I ask.

"Yes,"

I tighten my arms around myself. "Then, you've come to gloat? I got it all wrong and Mr. Malkowski has been stealing drugs from the Bernsteins' pharmacy?"

"Mr. Malkowski is seventy years old,"

"Prescription drugs are very expensive for senior citizens,"

"_I get it_. You're angry," Julie says. But she doesn't apologize. Maybe she's not sorry. She wanted me to be a liar. She wanted to believe in the Emily she used to know. Julie chooses Emily over me again and again. I guess I can't fault her for that.

"So, now you know the truth,"

Julie shrugs and looks away. Perhaps she's always known.

"What are we going to do?" I ask.

Julie stands, finally facing me head on. "I'll take care of it," she says.

"What do you mean, you'll take care of it?" I demand.

"I mean, I'll take care of it," she replies, walking down the steps. "I'll talk to my parents and then, I'll talk to the Bernsteins." Julie slips a pair of black glittery earmuffs over her pointy elf ears and picks up her bike.

"You mean it?" I ask, slightly suspicious. I can't fully believe that Julie will step out of her bubble so easily. But this is why I told her, isn't it?

"Emily is my best friend," she says, looking back at me. Then she pushes off and pedals down the drive. She turns her head and waves. And I guess that seals a promise I'm not sure I can trust in.

* * *

Mom and I forgot to buy a Christmas tree. Somehow, Christmas is only ten days away. I told Mom to let it go, we can get a tree next year. Neither of us have been in much of the Christmas spirit. But Mom insists, we must have a tree. And so here we are, in Mom's old station wagon, driving clear out to Mercer to Quigley's Christmas Tree Nursery. Grace is in the backseat because she came over to study and Mom kidnapped her. Mom's trying to convince herself that she's full of holiday cheer. Maybe Grace is pretending too. Maybe not. They're singing along to Bing Crosby on the radio. Do You Hear What I Hear? Neither has much of a voice.

I'm slumped in the front seat, staring out the window at the darkness, not even faking good cheer. I'm not thinking of Emily and Julie, or any of my other problems that are right here in Stoneybrook, waiting for me every day. Instead, I'm thinking of what I found when I entered the house after watching Julie ride away.

The mail was in a messy pile on the tile in the foyer. Two things came for me. The first was a white business-sized envelope with my name and address typed on the front. Inside was a plane ticket to Cleveland. Nothing else. I'd forgotten it was Dad's year to have me for Christmas. Actually, the last three years have been his years. He always gives them up for something more important. Last year, it was a meeting in Tucson. I can't believe he expects me to come. I don't believe he wants me. He only wants me to disappoint him for a change, to refuse the offer. For once, I can be the bad guy instead of him. Everyone plays these mind games with me, and my own father is the worst offender.

I didn't tell Mom. I'm not going to tell anyone. I slipped the ticket inside a desk drawer, piled beneath old math notebooks. It will stay there. I'll pretend it doesn't exist. I'll forget about it and move on.

The second thing was a postcard. It came from St. Louis and showed the famous St. Louis arch at nighttime, the city lit up all around it. The postcard was from Sam Thomas. It's not important what he said. Just more delusions. I hid it with the plane ticket. Maybe I should tell Kristy. I bet he didn't send his wife and baby anything.

"...and then there's this gorgeous lavender coat..." Grace is telling Mom when I tune them in again. "I told my father that if he doesn't buy it for me, I'll die. It's _breathtaking_. And there are these opal barrettes...and a matching necklace..."

"What are you talking about?" I ask, turning around.

Grace looks surprised. "My Christmas list, of course," she replies. "And Mrs. McGill, have you smelled that new perfume? It comes in a spiral bottle? I want that, too. I also need new tennis equiptment...a new racket and - "

"You want a lot of stuff,"

"It's just a list," she replies, testily. She hesitates a moment, then adds, "Of course, Jesus is the reason for the season."

"Of course," I agree, turning back around and settling in my seat.

Ten minutes later, we pull into the parking lot of Quigley's. It's surprisingly crowded for this late in the season. Maybe everyone's lacking in Christmas spirit this year.

"We're supposed to get snow next week," Mom tells us, as she buttons her coat. "Of course, its been snowing all week in Vermont." Mom winks at me.

I shove my hands into the pockets of my parka and smile. "Hear that, Grace?" I ask.

"Yes," she replies, pulling her orange and yellow knit hat over her ears. It clashes horribly with her red hair and tan sweatshirt. Poor Grace wasn't expecting us to drag her out in public tonight. "I haven't decided if I'm going."

"We're leaving tomorrow," I remind her. I slip my arm through hers and pull her through the gate to the Christmas tree nursery.

Mom and I are very particular about our Christmas tree. Last year, we wandered around the nursery for over an hour, examining every needle of every tree. This year, I point to the first Douglas fir we come across and suggest we buy that. Mom shakes her head. She insists on sticking to tradition and fake holiday cheer.

"This place stinks," complains Grace, after only five minutes of browsing. "At our house, we use a pine spray. It smells much better." The Blumes have four Christmas trees. A green one, a white one, a silver one, and even a purple one. They're all fake.

"It smells like Christmas," Mom replies, inhaling deeply. "Oh, look at that Noble fir!" she exclaims, grabbing Grace by the hand.

I start to follow, but am distracted. Across the nursery, beside an enormous Douglas fir is a girl with a blonde ponytail and black glittery earmuffs. Julie Stern. A wave of hot anger sweeps over me. She's supposed to be talking to her parents and the Bernsteins, not shopping for Christmas trees. I look around, but Mom and Grace have disappeared. So, I charge across the lot toward Julie.

"You made a promise!" I growl when I reach her, giving her a shove in the back.

Julie turns around. Except it isn't Julie. It's her older sister, Rachel.

My face grows hot with embarrassment. "Sorry," I mumble. "I thought you were Julie." It's unfortunate that all the Sterns look alike.

Rachel stares at me like I'm completely crazy. "I'm not," she says, like I haven't figured it out for myself.

I try to shake off my embarrassment. "So..." I start, casually, "is Julie here?"

"No. We're buying a tree for Stoneybrook Manor," Rachel replies and for the first time I notice four other girls standing around the tree. They're all wearing mauve-colored scrubs under their jackets. How did I ever mistake Rachel for Julie? Julie would never walk around dressed like that.

"Uh...don't mention this to Julie," I say, hastily, then turn and rush away. Back by the Douglas fir I hear Rachel say, "One of my sister's dumb friends..."

Mom and Grace aren't by the Noble fir. I don't want to look like a dorky little kid by standing around, calling, "Mom!" so I go off in search of them. I never realized how huge the lot is. I keep having to step around jumping, shrieking children. Normally, I'd find them cute. But I'm not in the mood tonight.

Then I spot the least cute child of all.

Jenny Prezzioso.

She's standing a few yards away, wearing the same lilac-colored coat and white patent leather shoes she wore on Thanksgiving. Andrea's behind her, dressed to match. I almost don't recognize the woman beside them as Mrs. Prezzioso. I'm used to seeing her in cocktail dresses and spiked heels, as perfectly put together as her children. Tonight, she looks completely nondescript in tan slacks and an off-white cardigan. Her hair is clipped back messily. She looks exhausted and hollowed out.

Jenny glances my way. Our eyes lock. Jenny smiles, but it isn't pretty or kind, not like how a child's smile should look. Jenny reaches out and tugs on the hem of Mrs. Prezzioso's cardigan. Mrs. Prezzioso deep in conversation with a man, who I suspect is the brother she lives with, but she glances away from him and down at Jenny. Jenny points in my direction. I take off, my search for Mom and Grace now frantic. I walk briskly through the trees, dodging adults and little kids. I think I hear someone behind me, following, but that's crazy. Mrs. Prezzioso wouldn't follow me.

I finally find Mom and Grace, laughing and examining the branches of a tree. "Where have you been?" Mom asks, slightly irritated and no longer laughing.

I grab Mom's arm and give it a tug. "We have to leave. Right now!"

"What?" Mom cries.

"Come on!"

"Stacey! What's wrong?"

"Hey, I think I see Julie!" Grace exclaims, lifting her arm to wave.

"It's not Julie," I snap. "_Come on._"

It's too late. Mrs. Prezzioso appears between a space in the trees. I was right. She was following me. I drop Mom's arm. A sort of strangled cry dies in her throat. Mom and Mrs. Prezzioso stare at each other. Grace nudges me in the back, leans in and whispers, "psycho," in my ear. She thinks it's funny. A grown up game.

"Maureen," says Mrs. Prezzioso, stiffly.

"Madeleine," Mom replies, just as stiffly.

Mrs. Prezzioso looks up at the tree, then back at Mom. "Buying a Christmas tree?" she asks, in this oddly pleasant voice.

Mom doesn't answer.

"I bet you're so thrilled, Maureen," Mrs. Prezzioso continues, loudly, "that this Christmas, you don't have to sneak around to have sex with my husband!"

Grace gasps. Several people turn around and stare at us.

Mom's cheeks pinken slightly, but her voice remains smooth and controlled. "Nick isn't your husband anymore," she says.

"He was when you started sleeping with him!"

More people are closing in, staring openly without shame. It's just what Mom and I need, to be the center of attention, the sideshow at the Christmas tree farm. Mom's control seems to falter. She stands there and says nothing. I'm almost disappointed. My mother usually has such strength and poise. She should know exactly what to say.

"Let's just go home," I say, touching Mom's wrist.

Mom glances at me and nods, then she says to Mrs. Prezzioso, "I'm sorry for what happened, Madeleine. That's all I can say. You and Nick are divorced now. Please leave us alone."

It is the wrong thing to say.

Mrs. Prezzioso screeches, this shrill, inhuman screech, and leaps at Mom, arms outstretched. I'm knocked backward into Grace and we tumble to the ground. When I struggle back to my feet, Mrs. Prezzioso is on Mom, hands wrapped around her throat, banging her head against the ground. Several little kids have started crying. Everyone's still staring, but no one does anything.

"Get off my mother!" I shriek, lunging for Mrs. Prezzioso. I wrap my arms around her tiny waist and try to pull her off. She throws an elbow back and it hits me square in the throat. I fall back again, clutching my throat, and gasping.

"Mrs. Prezzioso!" Grace yelps and when I sit up, Grace is on her knees, holding a hand over her left eye.

"Get off my mother!" I shout again, rushing toward Mrs. Prezzioso again. I jump on her back and she gasps in surprise, but doesn't loosen her grip on Mom's neck. Mom is fighting back now, tearing at Mrs. Prezzioso's face and hair. "Get off my mother, you psycho bitch!" I scream.

A pair of arms encircle my waist and pull me off Mrs. Prezzioso. I shout in protest as Rachel Stern unceremoniously drops me on my butt. I jump to my feet just as Mrs. Prezzioso's brother lifts her off of Mom.

"That was the saddest thing I've ever seen," Rachel tells me. "Your mom totally got her ass handed to her on a platter."

"Oh, shut up, Rachel," I snap.

I rush to Mom, who's half-sitting up, rubbing her neck. There are two red hand marks encircling it. A handful of caramel-colored hair is still clutched in her hand.

Mrs. Prezzioso's brother struggles to pull her away. She thrashes around, attempting to free herself from his grip. I don't see Jenny or Andrea. I wonder if they're hiding, or if they've been left of the other side of the lot, forgotten.

"You've ruined my life, Maureen McGill!" Mrs. Prezzioso screams, as her brother half-drags, half-carries her away. "I had a perfect life! You destroyed my happy family! I'm going to make you sorry, Maureen! You'll be sorry!" And then she disappears between the trees and after awhile, her screams die away.

I offer Mom my hand and help pull her up. Mom and I try to brush the dust from her coat and slacks. Her hair is full of dirt. Everyone's still staring and strangely enough, I'm not even embarrassed. I'm just angry, partly at all of them for standing by and letting it all happen, relishing in our family scandal.

"We're leaving," Mom says, tightly, looking only at me and Grace. She doesn't even acknowledge all the eyes drinking up the scene.

I survey the crowd and announce in a calm, clear voice, "Thank you very much for the assistance," then I look at Grace, expecting her to chime in with one of her usual snotty, biting remarks. Instead, she glares at me, icily and turns to follow Mom.

We're silent in the car. Mom turns the key in the ignition, breathing deeply, and I can tell she's doing her best not to cry. She wipes at her eyes a couple times, smearing her mascara and liner. Then, she backs out of the parking spot and finally we leave Quigley's Christmas Tree Nursery.

"Are you girls all right?" Mom asks when we're on the street.

"Fine," I reply, although I'm sure my backside will be bruised tomorrow.

"Grace?"

Grace remains silent. I check the rearview mirror. She's staring forward, blankly. She looks silly in that ugly hat. "I'm okay," she finally says.

No one says anything else for another fifteen minutes. It's Mom who breaks the silence. "I'm sorry you girls had to see that," she apologizes, voice a bit strained. "That was unfortunate. Madeleine Prezzioso has some issues to work out."

"It wasn't your fault, Mom," I insist. "She can't blame you for everything forever. She's crazy."

The rest of the drive I worry, which isn't anything new. I worry about Grace's silence and stony expression. Is she doing what I've always imagined she would? Sitting there in silent judgment of my mother, wordlessly damning her to Hell? That's why I've told her all these half-truths, glossing over the dirty details. I never wanted it to come to this, for this eerily silent scene to come to pass. What is Grace thinking about me and my mother? Maybe I'm losing another friend, right here on the freeway.

It's nearly eight when Mom pulls up outside the Blumes' house. The downstairs lights are on. The Blumes are actually home.

Mom and I sit quietly while Grace unbuckles her seatbelt. She opens the door and speaks for the first time in half an hour. "I won't be going to Vermont tomorrow. Thank you for the invitation," then she climbs out of the station wagon and slams the door.

Mom gives me an apologetic look, but I'm out of the car before she can speak. I chase after Grace. "Wait! Grace!" I call after her.

Grace waits on the porch, watching me with the same icy gaze from the Christmas tree farm.

"I need to explain, Grace," I say in a rush. "I know what my mom did was terrible. There's no excuse for it, but - "

"So, it's true? Your mom broke up the Prezziosos marriage?"

"She didn't do it alone," I protest.

"Why didn't you tell me?" Grace demands.

"Because it's not the kind of thing you tell about your mother! I didn't want anyone else to know! I especially didn't want you to know. I didn't want you judging her and calling her a sinner, and...all that stuff you do,"

Grace straightens to her full height, so that I have to tilt my head upward slightly to look her in the eye. Grace's nostrils flare, unattractively. "I am _not_ judgmental. And your mom _is_ a sinner. But it's not like...it's not like I would have hated her for it. You have no faith in me!"

"I'm sure your parents have secrets and you keep them,"

"Of course my parents have secrets. Everyone does," Grace folds her arms across her chest. She leans in a whispers, "I trusted you with the biggest secret of all. And you couldn't give me the courtesy of returning the favor!"

The _favor_? More like a curse. "I thought you had enough," I reply.

"You should have told me. We're supposed to be best friends,"

I'm taken aback. I've never thought of Grace as my _best_ friend. I attempt to hide my surprise, but am not quick enough. Grace stiffens. "Oh. I see," she says, thinly. "You're still waiting for Mary Anne to come back. I'm the last one standing and am just filling the void." Grace opens the front door and slips inside. She slams the door in my face.

It's a long, lonely walk from the Blumes' front porch to Mom's car.

"I'm sorry, Stacey," Mom says when I get back in the car.

"It's not your fault,"

"Do you still want to go to Vermont tomorrow?"

"Yes, yes, yes. Get me out of this town!" I sort of fake chuckle, trying to lighten the mood, but it falls flat.


	37. Chapter 37

Mom drops me off at SHS on Monday morning. The weekend in Vermont has done us a world of good. We left Friday tense and uncomfortable, but by Saturday morning were laughing and racing down the slopes with my cousins. I didn't want it to end. I didn't want to come back to Stoneybrook. I think it was tempting even for Mom, to stay in Vermont forever, hidden away in that cabin in the middle of nowhere. A true fresh start.

But that's not reality.

"Got all your books?" Mom asks. She tugs absent-mindedly on the collar of her ivory turtleneck sweater. She's worn a turtleneck since Friday to cover the bruises Mrs. Prezzioso left on her neck.

"Yep," I reply, checking my bag.

I unlatch my belt, but don't make a move to leave the car. I must sit there too long because Mom glances at the clock on the dash, then at me. "Stacey...I have to be at the store in New Hope by eight-thirty," she informs me.

"All right," I sigh, grudgingly, opening the door and climbing out. I lean back in. "Another fantastic day at Stoneybrook High, another fabulous day in the life of Stacey McGill."

Mom smiles, wanly. "Think positive thoughts," she advises.

I shut the car door and watch her drive away. It's strange because I feel a tug of sadness, like a sense of loss. Mom seems like my only true ally these days. And now I am alone to face the day virtually friendless. I jam my hands into the pockets of my white parka and start across the parking lot, slow and reluctant, like a criminal walking the path to execution. I see Grace by her Corvette, leaning against it, casually flipping her hair and giggling with Mari Drabek and Katie Shea. I let my eyes linger a bit too long, feel another ache of loss, then continue on my way.

"Wait! Stacey!" someone calls.

I stop so quickly and unexpectedly that Cary Retlin nearly hits me with his Ford Fiesta. He lays on the horn and makes a rude gesture. I jump back and turn around. Grace is jogging across the parking lot, red hair flying, messenger bag beating against her thigh. She skids to a stop in front of me.

"I tried calling you last night," she tells me.

"We didn't get home until late," I reply, readjusting my book bag strap.

"I should have gone with you," she says, a bit sadly. She flips her red hair over the shoulder of her tan coat. She doesn't look as self-assured as she intends. "Look, now, Stacey..." she begins. "I'm sorry I got so angry with you. I was wrong. I can admit it. I just...I was hurt, you know? But I thought about it a lot this weekend and you were right. It's not the kind of thing you tell about your mother. I understand why you wanted to keep it a secret."

I gape at Grace, rather stupidly. I never expected her to apologize without prodding and serious arm bending. I thought I'd end up the one apologizing to _her_. "Oh," I manage to say, which only makes me feel dumber.

Grace isn't bothered. "I haven't really had a best friend since Cokie. You and Mary Anne had each other for a long time, and then Emily and Julie. I guess it was wrong to think I could just step in. Maybe you're not ready for a new best friend,"

"Maybe I'm not,"

Grace smiles and shifts her messenger bag to her other shoulder. "I still don't think I'm judgmental _at all,_" she says and it's actually nice to hear that snotty tone in her voice. "I'm all about forgiveness. I am surprised in your mom though, and it _is_ disappointing, but well, all mistakes can be forgiven. I guess."

"Yes, I suppose so," I agree. I don't give Grace enough credit. Despite all her faults, she is a good friend. At least she can say, _"I'm sorry, let's move on."_

"I'm sorry, too," I tell her. "I'm sorry I hurt your feelings."

Grace shrugs. "I know you didn't mean to. I'm sorry I missed out on Vermont. Was it fun?"

I can't help smiling. "It was wonderful! The best weekend I've had in a long time. When we left, Mom and Uncle Lou were talking about another ski trip over New Year's. You can come then. How was your weekend?"

Grace shrugs again. "Julie and I had to work on a project for government," She rolls her eyes. "We were at her house. Rachel tried to get me to re-enact your mom and Mrs. Prezzioso's fight with her. I wouldn't. Julie thought it was hilarious, of course." Grace pauses and sighs. "I guess Julie's known the secret for awhile. Don't worry, I'm not _mad_. You weren't the one who told her. I'm not even mad that apparently _Lauren Hoffman_, of all people, knew before me." Grace sighs again, dramatically, but I know she's telling the truth. She's not really angry anymore.

A bell rings shrilly in the distance. I glance at my watch. "Oh no! I still have to stop at my locker!" I exclaim. Mrs. Dowery has become even more unforgiving of my lateness than usual.

"I'll walk you," Grace volunteers.

"I can't be late...again,"

"We'll walk fast,"

Grace and I hurry toward the building, taking long strides, united.

* * *

I spot Julie in the hot lunch line during fifth period lunch, holding an empty tray. My lunch is in my book bag, but I'm dying to know if she's kept her promise. I rush over and push my way into line behind her. I receive a few dirty looks, but no one says anything.

"Hey Julie,"

"Hi Stace," Julie greets me with a brief smile, then turns away to lean across the counter. "_Gross_," she gasps, picking up a plate of mashed potatoes and turkey gravy. "I'm going to kill Paul. He stole my sack lunch this morning,"

I skip the turkey gravy and push my tray on. "Good weekend?" I ask.

"Yeah," Julie replies, turning back to me momentarily, smiling. I notice she's wearing a red Kenny Rogers t-shirt. I'd forgotten. She was going to his concert with the Bernsteins Saturday night. "I heard your mom got beat down by Mr. Prezzioso's ex. Too bad I wasn't there. I'd totally have had your mom's back. How's your butt?"

The girl in front of Julie turns and gives us a weird look, but I ignore it. "Bruised, thanks to your sister," I say.

"Don't blame her. I heard you got knocked down _three_ times. Pretty sad, if you ask me,"

"Sorry, I don't do a lot of street fighting,"

"I thought you were from New York,"

This is getting us nowhere. "Have you spoken to the Bernsteins?" I ask, point blank.

Julie's bent down, closely examining the green beans. "The wheels are in motion," she replies.

"What's that supposed to mean?" I demand. I think it means she hasn't done anything at all.

"I talked to Rachel about it - "

"_Rachel_? I don't remember Rachel being part of the plan!"

Julie remains unflustered. "Rachel's a nursing student,"

"Specializing in geriatric care," I snap.

"I don't understand her fascination with old people either," Julie says, finally deciding to pass on the green beans. "But she knows a lot. And so do my parents. About drugs and stuff. The sixties, you know. There's a certain approach to take with the Bernsteins. This weekend wasn't the right time. My parents agree."

I watch Julie slide two banana puddings onto her tray. I guess the Sterns would know. They are the Bernsteins best friends. And they're adults. That's what I've wanted, isn't it? For an adult to step in and take control.

"I told you, I'll take care of it," Julie tells me, handing her money to the cashier.

I nod. "All right, Julie. Thank you," I hand my empty tray to the cashier and duck out of the line. Grace, Erica, and Lauren are already seated at our usual table. Erica's gesturing wildly and talking a mile a minute. Grace appears slightly annoyed.

"Stacey!" Erica shrieks when I pull out my chair. She jumps up and lifts her sweatshirt. Underneath, she's wearing a Skeeball tank top - with Skyllo's picture on it!

I can't help myself. I shriek, too. "You really went to the concert!" I exclaim.

"You almost came, too!" says Lauren. "We were coming to Vermont to kidnap you! But Mrs. Blumberg found out and stopped us." She shoots Erica a withering look, like it's all Erica's fault.

"It was a stupid plan anyway. Here, Stace, we got you a shirt, too," Erica unzips her backpack and starts pulling out papers and trash. "Hm. I guess I left it in my locker."

"That's okay. Tell me about the concert!"

"Well, we almost got arrested," says Lauren.

Grace snorts, as if that's exactly what she expected to happen.

"It was fantastic though!" insists Erica. "Right up until we almost got arrested. And afterward, it was worth it! We were waiting in the ally after the concert, by the back door. There was a ton of people and photographers and it was insane. We waited over an hour, then finally the band came out - "

"And Erica completely lost her head and threw herself on Skyllo," Lauren finishes.

I gasp. "She did not!"

Erica nods. "I couldn't help myself. One second, I was screaming with everyone else and the next, I was flying through the air. I touched Skyllo, Stacey. I _touched_ him. He smells like menthol," Erica sighs, dreamily.

Lauren rolls her eyes. "While she was restrained, I talked the bodyguards out of calling the cops."

"Ever the politician," scoffs Grace.

"Wow," is all I can say. Part of me is sad I missed all the excitement and the chance to be so near Skyllo. However, had Erica gotten us arrested, Mom would have locked me in my room until graduation.

Lauren pops open her grape soda and takes a sip. "Too bad you couldn't come, Stacey. And too bad you weren't here on Friday. _Someone_ super glued action figures to the hood of Price Irving's car!"

I choke on my apple slice. "What!" I exclaim. Where does Lauren come up with these bizarre ideas?

"That was you?" Grace hisses, leaning forward. "Are you the one who filled his mailbox with nacho cheese last week?"

I scrunch up my face at Lauren. She filled his mailbox with _cheese_?

"What? Are you going to rat me out?" Lauren demands in a challenging tone.

Grace grunts and takes a vicious bite out of her celery stick.

After lunch, Grace and I walk upstairs to her locker. I watch as she unloads the contents of her messenger bag and puts the books and binders away neatly, lined up by height. "Grace...when you were at Julie's this weekend, did she say anything about Emily?" I ask.

"About Emily? No,"

I didn't think so. I shrug, slightly, to indicate it doesn't matter, my question had no importance.

Grace shuts her locker and turns to me with an odd expression. "It's weird of you to mention Emily. She came over to my house on Sunday. I don't know the last time she was at my house. It was so random. She just showed up,"

I attempt to not appear too interested. "Really? What did she want? How did she look?"

Grace shrugs. "I don't know. She looked like Emily. Except I think she's been sick. That's unlucky since it's the holidays. Isn't today the first day of Hanukkah? Did you get her a gift?"

"But what did she want?"

Grace looks a bit offended. "To hang out with me, of course. She helped me wrap my Christmas gifts. But this is what's weird. She went upstairs to use the bathroom and was gone a long time, so I went to see if she was all right. I caught her coming out of my parents' room. She said she liked their bathroom better than mine. Isn't that weird?"

"Yes, that is weird," I agree. A weight drops in my stomach. What would Emily be doing in the Blumes' bathroom? Grace seems to brush it off, changing the subject to the Winter Ball, which is this Saturday. I try to listen, but I'm thinking about Emily, and I think about her all through sixth period, and then all through seventh while staring at her as she makes neat notes in her Statistics binder.

* * *

It's strange that I spent so much time thinking about Emily today because that's exactly who calls me after school. She hasn't called me in a very long time. It's a surprise to hear her voice.

"Can you come over?" she asks me. Her voice sounds brittle, like it might break in the air. "I need someone to talk to."

"What about Julie?" I retort. As much as I want to help Emily, I can't hide the hint of meanness in my voice. I am not perfect.

Emily breathes into the phone. "Julie doesn't want to hear it," she finally says.

"All right. I'm coming,"

I leave the warmth of my home and pedal down the street toward Rosedale Road. I don't think I'll ever get my car back. That punishment will go on forever. I'll probably have to ride my bike to my college graduation.

The Bernsteins' cleaning lady lets me in the front door. She directs me upstairs to Emily's bedroom. The door is ajar. I push it open. Emily's sitting at her desk, hands resting listlessly in her lap, staring down at them. I knock lightly, not sure if she's noticed me.

Emily glances up. Her face is still drawn and pale. Those circles may be permanently engraved beneath her eyes. "Stacey," she says and nothing more.

I enter the room, unzipping my parka. I toss it on the bed, then I'm not sure what to do. Should I sit down? Emily doesn't seem interested in giving me directions, not like the old Emily would. I gaze around the room. It's the same room I've been in a hundred times. It does not betray the new Emily, gives no indication of who she has become.

There's a large picture frame on the floor by the window, turned the wrong way, so the picture leans against the wall. I've never noticed it before. "What's that?" I ask, pointing to it.

Emily's eyes follow my finger. "Oh, that," she says, hollowly. "Julie gave it to me for my birthday."

"Why is it turned wrong?"

"Because I hate it,"

"Oh," I shift uncomfortably from foot to foot. When did we get like this? When did me and all my friends get like this? "So...you need to talk?"

Emily slides open her desk drawer and pulls out a piece of folded white paper. She flicks it nonchalantly into the air. It flips once, then flutters safely onto the bed. I pick it up, carefully, and unfold it. It's a typed letter on Georgetown letterhead. There's a sinking in my stomach.

I read aloud, "Dear Miss Bernstein...the Committee on Admissions regrets to inform you..._Oh, Emily,_" I gasp. I check the date on the letter. December second. Today is the eighteenth. "Oh, Emily...when did you get this?"

"Almost two weeks ago,"

"Oh, Emily," I breathe, staring at the letter. "Why didn't you say anything? What did your parents say?"

"They don't know,"

My jaw drops. "They don't _know_? You haven't told them?"

Emily shakes her head, slowly, like it requires much effort. "They'll be so upset. So disappointed. We never thought I wouldn't get in."

"You have to tell them sometime. They know when early-admissions are mailed,"

Emily looks down at her hands. "They...they think I got in. I made a fake letter,"

I look up from the rejection letter, stunned. "You what!"

"I thought it would buy me some time. They wanted it so badly. I just gave them what they wanted. I thought that in the spring, when the regular admissions letters arrive, I could say I changed my mind, that I don't want to go to Georgetown anymore," Emily's face sort of crumples, pitifully. "But Stacey! I'm not going to get in anywhere! If Georgetown doesn't want me, no school will want me! I won't get into Wellesley or Amherst or Northwestern. I bet I couldn't even get into Stoneybrook U!" Emily collapses in tears, bending her head low, maybe in hopes that I won't see. "I am such a failure, Stacey. A failure! I could have worked so much harder. I just didn't try! If only I'd been better, Stacey!"

The self-centered part of me wants to tell Emily she's being silly, that we can't get everything we want. Life doesn't end over a single rejection letter. I push that part of myself away, quickly, burying it deep within me where it belongs.

"Emily, Emily," I say, attempting to imitate the clear, smooth voice my mother uses on me when I am upset. "Emily, it isn't your fault. You did your best and you were better than most. You'll get into all those other schools. What's so special about Georgetown? This letter just shows what morons they are not letting you in. Northwestern is so much nicer. Mary Anne and I applied there. Maybe we'll both go!" I add some fake cheer at the end, but it isn't very convincing.

Emily shakes her head. She's holding herself tight now, rocking back and forth in her chair. "I'm not going to college," she chokes out. "I'm going to spend the rest of my life right here in Stoneybrook. Maybe Mr. Stern can help me get a job at the post office! No, you have to take a test. I probably wouldn't pass it. Is Bellair's hiring? Maybe I'm at least qualified to sell underwear!"

"Emily!" I say, sternly. "Don't be ridiculous. Of course you're going to college. You will not spend your life selling underwear at Bellair's. And so what if you do? You'll be the smartest, cleverest underwear saleswoman in Connecticut. You don't need Georgetown to tell you whether you're smart or worthy."

Emily stops rocking and wipes her eyes with the sleeve of her blouse. She looks so defeated. My eyes well with tears, but I fight them back. Where has Emily Bernstein gone? Where is my wonderful, thoughtful friend?

"You need to talk to your parents tonight. Talk to them for real. No lies, no half-truths. You need to tell them _everything_, Emily," I give her a pointed look, but she doesn't notice. She's staring at her hands. "I can stay with you. We can tell them together. Would that make it easier?"

Emily shakes her head. "No, I should do it alone. You know my mom has a short fuse. You shouldn't have to see that." Emily reaches out and takes the letter from me. She folds it neatly and returns it to the desk drawer.

"Your parents aren't going to yell, Emily. They love you. They'll be concerned,"

"No, they'll be disappointed and that's a lot worse,"

I check the clock on Emily's wall. It's nearly four. "I'll wait with you until they get home," I offer.

"No, that's okay," Emily replies, standing up. "I think I'll take a nap. I'm so exhausted, Stacey." Emily sits down on the edge of her bed.

I nod. "All right, Emily. I'll call tonight to check on you," I walk around toward the door, but stop beside Emily. I wrap my arms around her, holding her tight. I feel her spine beneath her blouse. I might break her. She hugs me back, weakly. It's funny, after everything, all her changes, Emily still smells the same. Like gardenias.

Downstairs, it looks like the cleaning lady has already left. I lock the door behind me. I walk my bike down to the sidewalk, then look up at Emily's bedroom. The light is off. I jump on my bike and pedal down the street to Julie's house. I ring the bell and wait.

Paul answers. "She's not here," he informs me without a greeting.

"Where is she?"

"No idea. Something about Hanukkah,"

"Are your parents home?"

"No, they're at work. Rachel's here,"

"Well, I don't need Rachel," I reply, testily. "Would you please tell Julie, or your parents, that Emily's telling her parents tonight? Someone should check on her in awhile. They'll know what I mean."

"Good because you sound nutty to me,"

"_Thanks,_ Paul," I retort, sarcastically. I turn and jog back down the driveway to my bike. Emily and Julie's street is closer to downtown Stoneybrook than to my house. I decide to ride to Bellair's. I can pick up my paycheck, then catch a ride home with Mom. Maybe she'll want to pick up chinese for dinner. Maybe I'll tell her about Emily.

Mom's swamped at work. Her desk is barely visible beneath the piles of order forms, invoices, and catalogues. Getting ready for summer, she tells me. She's not ready to leave at five. It's almost six when she finally switches off her computer, sighs, and announces it's time to go home. I am more than ready to leave. I've spent nearly two hours laying on the floor working on homework. It's been very uncomfortable.

Mom and I walk across the street to Uncle Ed's after I assure her that Julie isn't working, even though I've assured her a hundred times that Julie doesn't actually _prepare_ the food. I phoned in the order from Mom's office, so the food is waiting when we walk in. Then it's back across the street to the Bellair's parking lot, where Mom's station wagon is in its reserved spot.

I shove my bike into the trunk, then hop into the front seat with Mom. The car smells delicious. I inhale deeply, the lovely scent of lemon chicken and chow mein.

"Turn on the heater, Stace," Mom instructs, as she backs out of her parking spot. We roll slowly toward the exit, but just as Mom's about to pull out onto Essex, an ambulance flies by at a breakneck speed, its lights blazing in the night. "Always pull over for ambulances, Stacey. Just think how you'd feel if they were rushing to your loved one."

I nod, but am more interested in searching the bag for the fried shrimp. When the ambulance lights are no longer visible, Mom decides its safe to pull out into the street. We're approaching Main Street when a dark Buick cuts us off. Mom slams hard on the brakes.

"Marian Bernstein! That woman!" she shrieks and leans hard on the horn.

Something cold and heavy sinks in my stomach.

"Oh my God."


	38. Chapter 38

We bury Emily on Wednesday.

It's the third day of Hanukkah, five days before Christmas. It snowed yesterday and today the snow has turned to slush under our feet and we step cautiously on the steps outside the funeral home. Mom is on my left, her arm wrapped around my waist, and Grace is on my right, our fingers entwined tight within each other. Up ahead, I see Julie being practically carried by Mr. Stern, the toes of her black heels dragging across the loose gravel. I'm pretty sure she's been sedated with the same tranquilizers as Mrs. Bernstein. The steps of the funeral home are crowded. All around me, I recognize faces from school. Kids from journalism, from statistics, all here for Emily. As for the Bernsteins, they're far ahead of everyone, gathered in a crush of black, following behind Emily, hoisted high on the shoulders of eight men in her plain pine box.

I don't know how this happened.

Everything has been a blur since Monday night. It's like I'm walking in a slow motion haze and yet everything is moving very, very fast. I don't know how this happened. I don't know _what_ happened. No one has any answers and hardly anyone's asking any questions. And already Monday is fading from my mind in a disjointed jumble. I'm not really sure what happened and what didn't and what blanks I've filled in with my own bad judgment and misconceptions.

I remember the ambulance sirens and the Bernsteins in their Buick and turning to Mom, telling her to follow. I knew then, somehow. Rosedale Road was lit like the fourth of July with spinning lights from the ambulance, the police cars, and the fire truck. The sidewalks were lined with neighbors. When Mom and I parked across the street in front of the Marshalls' house, Mr. and Mrs. Bernstein were out of their car, running across their front yard, but Mr. and Mrs. Stern were waiting and stopped them, holding them back. The first person out of the house was a police officer carrying Julie, kicking and screaming. I couldn't hear what she was shrieking as she thrashed in his arms. She was wearing pink pajama pants with purple unicorns. I remember her feet were bare. Rachel came out behind them, looking dazed and confused. And even in the night bathed in the red glow of the siren lights, I could see the blood soaking her mauve scrubs.

Not everyone comes to the graveside. A long stream of cars are leaving through the cemetery gates. I watch them from my folding chair in the ninth row, until Mom taps my arm, letting me know the rabbi is about to begin the prayers. Beside me, Grace listens intently, but I allow my mind and eyes to wander. I can't bear staring frontward at that pine casket, knowing Emily's laying inside, wrapped in a plain white shroud, not moving, not breathing, not alive. It isn't right. It shouldn't have come to this.

I stare at my crimson-painted nails for awhile, half-listening to the rabbi, who is Emily's uncle, Mr. Bernstein's brother. Then I glance around the graveside at all Emily's mourners. The journalism class is sitting together, off to my right. Mallory Pike and Shawna Riverson are seated side by side. Shawna's twisting something in her lap. I hope they are both very sorry for how they treated Emily. Mary Anne's two rows in front of me, sobbing into the sleeve of her father's coat. Kristy Thomas is beside her, holding her hand. I bet Mary Anne regrets it now, forcing Emily to choose between us. Oh. I shouldn't think such selfish, petty thoughts. Not now when Emily's laid out before me, dead.

Dead.

Emily Bernstein is dead.

Emily, my friend. My wonderful, clever friend. And I did nothing to save her. Not really. Mom wraps her arms around me, holding me close, as I sob into my hands. Grace offers me a tissue, but I shake my head, and instead bury my face in a soft fold of Mom's turtleneck sweater. I stay like that for a long time, sobbing and hidden, Mom stroking my hair. Finally, Mom whispers in my ear and I lift my head. The Bernsteins stand in front of Emily's casket, looking down at her for the last time. Mrs. Bernstein reaches out and touches Emily, then draws her hand back, shaking. The lid closes and Emily's casket begins a slow descent into the ground.

Starting with Mr. Bernstein, the family takes turns shoveling dirt onto Emily's grave. All four of Emily's grandparents are still living. They're tiny and old and Mr. Bernstein has to help each of them hold the shovel. Mom says it's a terrible thing for parents to outlive their children. It must be even worse then for grandparents to outlive them too. After Emily's cousins, Barbara Hirsch's parents take their turn, followed by a string of people I've never seen before. Friends from the Bernstein's synagogue, I suppose. Everyone uses the backside of the shovel, but I don't know why. Then all five of the Sterns step forward. When it's Julie's turn, like Emily's grandparents, she can barely hold the shovel. She looks small and pathetic as she scoops up the dirt. She's at least five times paler than she was half an hour ago when she stood at the front of the funeral service, attempting to eulogize Emily. She got four sentences out, then collapsed onto her knees. Mr. Stern had to carry her off the stage. Julie slowly tips the dirt into Emily's grave, then drops the shovel at her feet, so Paul has to pick it up for his turn.

Mrs. Stern raises her arm and beckons toward me and Grace. She spoke to us last night about Mrs. Bernstein's request. Grace pops up quickly, like she's overeager, but I rise much more reluctantly. Grace takes my hand, as she leads me up the aisle. The ground is frozen and my black boots slide slightly. I worry momentarily that I'll slip and dive headfirst into Emily's grave. That is all anyone needs now. Paul hands the shovel to Grace, who thrusts the blade deep into the pile of dirt. She comes up with a large shovelful that she struggles to hold steady. She dumps it quickly over the casket, then presses the handle into my hands. I step forward, briefly considering if I should use the backside of the shovel, even though Grace and the Sterns did not. I gingerly lift a small mound of dirt, then hesitate over Emily's casket. It's mostly covered in dirt by now with only a few patches of pine peeking out. It doesn't seem right throwing dirt on top of Emily. I glance up and Mr. and Mrs. Bernstein are staring at me. Somehow, I think they know what I'm thinking. I tip the blade slightly and watch the dirt tumble down in a slow cascade.

I take Grace's hand and lead her back to our seats. I'm not sure if we're supposed to stand around or not. I guess I didn't listen very closely to Mrs. Stern's instructions. But I don't want to be up there, so near to Emily's grave. Grace and I watch the rest of the burial from our seats. Erica Blumberg is after me, then Lauren Hoffman, Katie Shea, Mari Drabek, Pete Black. All people who have known Emily all their lives. And now they're throwing dirt on her. I lean against Mom. I've known Emily such a short amount of time compared to everyone else. Less than half my life. And when I am old, years and years from now, that time will be a short blip in my life. Maybe I will hardly remember Emily. Maybe years will pass in which I don't think of her. A few years weighed against a lifetime. I barely knew Emily.

I cover my eyes again and cry.

* * *

"It seems wrong," I say, when Mom, Grace, and I are in the car, leaving Stamford. We're stuck in a minor traffic jam outside the cemetery because both Pete Black and Shawna Riverson are insisting on the right of way. "It's like the Bernsteins' couldn't bury her fast enough. It hasn't even been two days." 

"Mrs. Wallingford told my mom that Mr. Bernstein wanted to have the funeral yesterday, but Mrs. Bernstein's parents couldn't get an earlier flight out of Atlanta," Grace replies. She rolls down her window and leans out. "Pete Black! Move your damn car! People are mourning here!"

"Yesterday!" I shriek. "A full twelve hours after Emily...after Emily...died?"

"Stacey..." Mom says. "Don't be hard on them. The Bernsteins are Jewish. Jeanie Stern told me that they couldn't wait more than two nights to bury Emily. It's disrespectful to leave someone unburied for too long. Don't judge the Bernsteins too harshly, Stace. This has been a horrible shock. I can't imagine..." Mom trails off and dabs her eye with a tissue. All the venom she had for Mrs. Bernstein has quickly disappeared.

I rest my head against the window. Pete, Erica, Lauren, and Mari are beside us in Pete's Saturn. Lauren's turned around in the front seat, showing something to Erica and Mari. They're laughing. Right now, I feel like I'll never laugh again. I close my eyes so I don't have to see them. "It still seems wrong, " I mumble. If Mom and Grace hear, they don't acknowledge it.

When we get back to Stoneybrook, there's already a long row of cars lined up on Rosedale Road. We have to park in front of the Sterns' house, then walk down to the Bernsteins'. The street is icy, so we step carefully. I pause in the driveway, gazing at Emily's house. All I see is Monday night, played back at low speed - the Bernsteins running, Julie screaming, Rachel covered in blood. And then Mrs. Bernstein braking free of Mrs. Stern's grip and tearing into the house. I should never have followed. I should have listened to the Sterns.

"Come on, Stacey," Mom says, touching my arm.

Inside the house, we toss our coats into the den. The house is too warm from all the bodies and the heater running on high. Mrs. Stern spots us and rushes over. She's shorter than the rest of the Sterns and shaped like a pear. She has Julie's pointy ears.

"Stacey, Grace," she says in a sort of breathless voice. She pats Grace's arm, then takes my hand and squeezes it. "Are you okay?" she asks, softly.

"I'm fine," I insist.

She smiles, vaguely. "Good. That's good," she says, then turns to Mom and lowers her voice. "Rachel and Julie are having such a terrible time. Julie especially. I had to drag her out of bed this morning, then I had to dress her. She's like a zombie. Marian and Bernie aren't much better and it will only get worse when everyone goes home and they're in this house alone. I don't know how Emily could do this. What was she thinking?"

Mom shakes her head. "I don't know, Jeanie. It's a tragedy. When we almost lost Stacey..."

I clutch Grace's hand. "Come on," I hiss and urge her away. We leave Mom and Mrs. Stern in the foyer, shaking their heads, and whispering. I am the only one who knows the whole truth, all of Emily's secrets, and it looks like I will keep them forever.

Grace and I push our way into the dining room, where a buffet has been set out on the table. Neither of us feel like eating, but Grace pours herself a cup of coffee while an old woman in a nubby knitted gray sweater serves me weak herbal tea. Cups held over our heads, we slip through the crowd and back out into the living room. It's still too warm, but much less crowded. I spot Rachel and Paul Stern across the room, standing with Erica and Pete. I almost miss Julie. She's on the floor between them, seated indian-style. She still looks small and pathetic and much too pale. She's wearing a short-sleeved black dress that's baggy in the bodice and hips. This is only the second time I've ever seen her in a dress. Her hair is pinned up in a coronet. It makes her look young, little girl-ish.

"Hello," I greet when Grace and I join them. "Hello everyone." I offer a small smile.

Grace skips the pleasantries. "Why are you sitting on the floor?" she asks Julie.

Julie mutters a reply.

"What?"

"She said that Mrs. Bernstein told her to sit on the floor," replies Rachel.

Grace glances around. "Why? Are there not enough chairs?"

"It demonstrates that I am at a low point in my life," Julie says in a low, scratchy voice, like her throat is very dry. "The Bernsteins are sitting on the floor, too."

Grace frowns. "Oh. Well, I like your hair, Julie."

Paul laughs, but is quickly silenced by a sharp look from Rachel.

"What's so funny?" I ask.

"_Nothing_," snaps Rachel.

Erica and Pete shrug. We stand awkwardly for awhile, not speaking, until Pete and Erica excuse themselves. Grace and I follow, leaving the Sterns alone in their corner. We pass a lot of familiar faces from school. It seems like most of the senior class has come, full of memories and regrets for Emily. Mary Anne and Katie Shea are huddled underneath the staircase, hugging and sobbing on each others' shoulders. Strangely enough, I don't feel the need to rush over and comfort Mary Anne. Instead, I tighten my grip on Grace's wrist and walk on.

Shawna Riverson corners us in the foyer. I'm searching for Mom, who has disappeared. Shawna's wringing a used tissue, her cheeks streaked with navy blue eyeliner. "Stacey!" she wails and throws her arms around my neck, nearly collapsing on top of me. "Stacey!" she wails again, releasing me.

"Shawna," I reply, politely. After three years working together on the _SHS Gazette_, Shawna and I have only ever bordered on friendly terms. I'm surprised to see her here, in Emily's house, ruining her make up. Shawna has never kept her dislike of Emily a secret.

"Oh, Stacey, I am wracked," she tells me. "I was so cruel to poor Emily. She wasn't such a bad editor. She only wanted us to put out the best possible paper. And I tormented her. I never should have called her Comrade Bernstein. Especially not after Mr. Arden ordered me to stop. But I just kept picking at her. And now she's gone. I'll never get to..." Shawna doesn't finish. She lowers her head and blows her nose.

"I'm sure Emily didn't take you seriously," I assure her, even though I know it's a lie.

Grace and I leave Shawna in the foyer. We go back into the living room. I feel so lost and aimless. I don't know where I should be. I don't know what I should do. Grace and I stop at the bottom of the staircase. We look up. It's dark at the top. Foreboding. I told Grace the truth, not the lie I was supposed to. Now Grace and I share two secrets. Two secrets to take to our graves.

"Let's go up," I say, setting a foot on the bottom stair.

Grace's jaw drops. "You want to go up _there_?" she asks, incredulous. She shakes her head. "No way. I don't want to ever go up there again. How can you?"

"I need to check something," I reply and start up the stairs.

Grace's footsteps fall behind me. I don't know what I'm expecting. At least now I'm prepared. I wasn't prepared Monday night. I reach the landing and flick on the hallway light. The scent of lemon cleanser permeates the air. I start down the hallway, approaching Emily's room. Aside from the lemon scent, everything looks normal. Perfectly in order. Except for the burgundy and forest green rug laying between Emily's room and the bathroom. It's never been there before. I step over it, like stepping on it might be bad luck. I know not to look under it.

Mary Anne and Katie Shea are sitting on Emily's bed. Two of the Bernsteins' cats are between them. The Bernsteins have five cats. They had seven, but two died last year.

"Hi Katie, hi Mary Anne," I say, quietly, stepping into the room.

Mary Anne averts her eyes and concentrates on petting the cat. The all white one. Sassafras, I think. I can never keep them straight.

"I'm sorry about Emily," Katie says.

"Thanks," I reply, then turn to Emily's desk. I slide open the top drawer. The Georgetown letter is gone. All that's there is a half-pack of cinnamon gum and a plastic tray filled with pencils, pens, and erasers. I knew. I knew it would be gone.

I hear the bed springs creak as Katie adjusts herself on the bed. "I heard you were there," she says to me, "when they found Emily."

I slide the drawer closed. "Julie and Rachel found her. I came later."

"I heard she was just laying out there in the hallway,"

"Yes, she was," I reply.

"Was she already...you know...when they found her?"

"No,"

Katie must open her mouth to ask another question because Grace snaps, "Why do you need to know this?"

I turn away from Emily's desk. Katie's mouth is, indeed, hanging open, poised to make another inquiry. She shuts it quickly.

"She doesn't mean anything by it," says Mary Anne, still watching the cat. "This has all happened so fast. Everyone's in a state of disbelief. We're just curious." Mary Anne sniffs, but doesn't cry.

Katie nods. "It all seems so pointless. Things like this aren't supposed to happen to our friends. Emily's parents are pharmacists! She should have known not to mix sleeping pills with her asthma medication!"

Grace and I exchange a glance. Grace folds her arms and looks away, studying a spot on the wall. Of course, the lie. It's amazing the things people will believe. Everyone should know that Emily didn't have asthma. But that's the lie Mrs. Stern told the neighbors as the paramedics wheeled out Emily's covered body. And so it is the lie we are all stuck with. The Bernsteins, the Sterns, Mom, and I, we will all tell that lie for the rest of our lives. Underneath the lie, we will know the truth, and that's worse than anything else.

"It was a mistake," I say.

Erica and Lauren swing around the doorframe. They're standing on the rug.

"That rabbi sent us to tell you guys, the Bernsteins don't want anyone up here," Lauren informs us.

"Hey, I haven't been in here since eighth grade!" Erica exclaims, sweeping into Emily's room, apparently forgetting the message she was sent to deliver. She plucks a stuffed yellow duck off Emily's bookcase. "I can't believe she still has this! Lauren! Do you remember when Clarence King gave this to Emily in sixth grade?"

"Ew! Yes!"

"Clarence King? Are you joking?" I ask.

Erica shakes her head. "No! He had a huge crush on Emily. Yuck! _Why_ would she keep this?" Erica drops the duck like it might be diseased. "Hey, Stace. Earlier, Pete and I were talking about that video we did in eighth grade. Remember? About the students at SMS? And Pete got all fired up over a _truck_? How lame was that video?"

"Oh, I thought it was good!" I protest.

Erica rolls her eyes. "Yeah, for eighth grade. Remember how Emily insisted we include all those horrible interviews? Man, she was mean."

I smile. "Yes, like of me talking about my parents screaming at each other?"

"Or me being mad at my mom for dying?" adds Mary Anne, quietly.

"Emily Bernstein, cutthroat journalist at thirteen," I joke.

No one laughs, like suddenly we've all remembered.

"We have to find a new editor-in-chief," Mary Anne tells us. "For the _Gazette_. Mr. Arden wants Julie to come back. She's the most experienced. She and Emily spent all those summers at that journalism camp. I hope she comes back."

"What's the deal with Julie's hair?" Grace asks Erica.

Erica turns back from the bookcase. "Oh. Well, apparently, Mrs. Stern had to pin her hair in the coronet because Julie refuses to wash it. I guess it's pretty oily."

Grace scrunches her nose. "She won't wash her hair?"

"Mrs. Bernstein told her not to. Because she's in mourning and physical appearances aren't important. That's why all the mirrors are covered. She isn't bathing either,"

"Gross," Grace and Katie say in unison.

"I think it's kind of nice," says Mary Anne. "Nothing is more important than Emily right now, and grieving for her."

Grace bites her bottom lip and bows her head, cheeks pinking slightly. We all fall silent for a few minutes, staring around Emily's room at all her beloved belongings - her photos, her books, all the mementos of her childhood. And beyond it all, all I see is Emily sitting in her desk chair, rocking and weeping, telling me of her failure. I should have done more. I hardly did anything at all.

"We should go," I finally say. "The Bernsteins don't want us up here."

Everyone nods and starts for the door. Grace is out quickly, practically leaping over the rug. She'll never come up here again. Katie scoops the orange tabby off the bed - Saffron, I think - and carries him out the door. Erica and Lauren follow, casting slow backward glances into Emily's room. Mary Anne picks up Sassafras and starts toward the door. She turns to me before crossing the threshold.

"I should have been nicer to Emily," she says, quietly, sadly. "I should have been nicer to everyone." Then she's gone, trailing behind Lauren down the hall.

I flick off Emily's bedroom light. I wonder if I'll ever come in here again. Do I even want to? I close my eyes tight, attempting to block the tears. It's a losing battle. I open them and let the tears stream down, hot and quick. I close the door.


	39. Chapter 39

I hear the sirens wailing, sort of muffled and distant. I see the lights, red and blue, reflected in the windows and on the whitewash of the Bernsteins' house. I'm running and I should be moving fast, but it's as if weights are wrapped around my ankles, slowing me and pulling me down. Someone calls my name, sharp and panicked, and it rings in my ears, following like an echo. But I do not listen. I do not stop.

There is Julie. A police officer is behind her, arms wrapped around her middle, holding her off the ground. She struggles against him, head tossed back, wailing louder than the sirens. I see things I don't remember, things I didn't know I saw. The soles of her barefeet are bloody. She isn't wearing a shirt. _Where is her shirt? _I wonder as I rush past. The question floats through my mind quickly, then disintegrates into the fog. She's yelling, but even now I don't hear.

I knock into Rachel on the threshold. Rachel in her blood-streaked scrubs, eyes glazed and lips colorless. She doesn't warn me away. She doesn't fight me back. She steps away and lets me in, almost like an afterthought, like she doesn't realize the curse she's handing me.

Up, up, up. On the stairs. Mrs. Bernstein's just ahead of me, stumbling in her high heels. I am so close I can smell her perfume on her clothes. Vanilla and musk. I wish she would move faster. I could go much faster, if not for the weights pulling me down. Seconds on the stairs that stretch into hours, racing up and never moving nearer. Mrs. Bernstein calls out, _Emily! Emily! _Shrill and clear, arching in her throat and shaking the stairs.

We reach the landing. All the lights are on, flooding the hallway, so we see the trail of bloody footprints moving toward us, like a warning, urging us back. And there is Emily.

"Stacey!"

I open my eyes. I am in the arms of my mother, half-sitting in the dim light, sweat soaking my hair and t-shirt. And I am crying. I hold Mom tight, sobbing into the shoulder of her nightgown. The dream is fading from my mind already, disjointed and foggy, like my memory. Things I only remember in the night, in the shallow of my dreams, are disappearing before I can latch onto them. All that remains are the feelings, fear and horror and fright all knotted up together.

"You woke me," Mom says in my ear. "I heard you screaming."

I don't remember screaming. "Another dream," I tell her, pulling back and pushing the hair out of my face. Is this the fate I have to look forward to? Monday night rewound and replayed in my mind every night, every time I close my eyes, for the rest of my life? I may go crazy. I may never sleep again.

"They won't last forever," Mom promises, reading my thoughts. "They'll become fewer and fewer, and then eventually, they will go away completely."

"And I'll forget Emily,"

"Of course not. You'll always remember Emily. She'll always be your friend,"

I bow my head and stare at my hands. Mom doesn't realize the expanse of time that stretches before me, all the years in which to lose Emily. She isn't thinking of that. She isn't thinking of how even memories of people fade and disappear. Just like dreams. Just like nightmares. "I never should have ran into the house. Someone yelled at me not to. Who was that?"

"Jeanie Stern. I tried to go after you, but a police officer stopped me. She wouldn't let me through the door. She didn't know you and Mrs. Bernstein had gone inside. They didn't want anyone else to see Emily. Especially not after Julie and Rachel. You saw Julie. After you ran inside, Rachel Stern passed out. Just crumpled to the ground like a wadded up tissue. And Mr. Bernstein was hysterical, then we heard screams from inside the house. It was horrible. I felt so helpless. All I wanted was to get to you."

"I don't remember much about it,"

"Maybe that's best," Mom replies, wrapping her arms around me again. She kisses my head. It seems so long ago we were fighting. So long ago that I called her a nag and a whore. I've lived a lifetime since then, a lifetime where I've discovered there's so much worse. "The poor Bernsteins," Mom says into my hair. "I remember those times we worried you might die. I never thought there could be anything more terrible than standing beside your daughter's bedside, praying she won't die. There is something worse. Your daughter choosing death and not telling you why. Poor Marian and Bernie. They'll spend the rest of their lives blaming themselves and wondering."

I close my eyes tight. This is my fault. My fault and Julie's...and Emily's. I should have told a month ago. That day at the pharmacy, I should have marched right out to the Bernsteins and told them what I saw. I should have told. So many times I should have told. And now it's too late. It doesn't matter. Telling could be worse than never knowing.

"Come sleep in my room," Mom says, standing up and reaching out a hand.

I shake my head. The dream doesn't come more than once a night. I am safe to sleep without guilt and regret invading my dreams. Mom switches off the light, but leaves the door open, so she can hear my cries if they come again. The hallway light goes off and Mom's footsteps retreat. I lay in the dark a long time, listening to the sounds of the house and to Paddy, purring beneath my bed.

* * *

In the morning, I ride my bike down the street to Erica's house. After Emily's funeral, Mom returned my car keys. A sort of apology, I guess. An I-am-sorry consolation for Emily being dead. It's funny. I lost my car because I threw Emily a birthday party, and I get it back because Emily is dead. I can't drive it. It's not right. Not when I'm partially responsible. Consolation or reward, I don't see the difference. Blame sits on my shoulders, heavy, and I don't deserve a car.

It's Saturday. I don't have anything to do. I quit my job at the Kid Center. Mrs. Grossman understood. I farmed out all my baby-sitting jobs to kids who feel sorry for me. Now there's nothing to do for the rest of December, except sit around, trying not to piece myself back together.

Erica's on her front porch, arranging potted poinsettias. Christmas is in two days. "Hey Stace!" Erica calls, sliding a pot farther from the front door. She straightens and brushes her bangs from her eyes. She's wearing a dark green sweater with Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer.

"You look festive," I tell her, walking up the steps.

Erica glances down at the sweater and shrugs. "I thought it might help," she says. "Aren't you supposed to be sitting for the McCluskey's?"

"I gave it away,"

"To who?"

"Rick Chow,"

"He baby-sits?"

"He does now,"

Erica frowns and brushes away her bangs again. She should cut them. They're always in her eyes. "Mom wants these arranged 'attractively'," she tells me, gesturing toward the poinsettias. "Want to help?"

I shrug. "All right."

Erica and I spend the next fifteen minutes moving the nine poinsettias around the Blumberg's long porch. We attempt elaborate designs around the brick pillars, but the ninth poinsettia keeps throwing us off. Finally, Erica kicks it over and pretends it was an accident. Our job done, Erica and I settle on the Blumberg's porch swing and Erica fills me in on the last days of school. I haven't been since Monday. There was no real reason to stay out on Thursday and Friday. Except I couldn't stop imagining everyone staring and whispering, like they did after Cokie Mason almost died in my den. Julie stayed out all week too. Grace went on Thursday because she had to give her and Julie's presentation in government. She'd had to finish the project by herself and it wasn't very good, but Ms. Avery gave Grace and Julie an "A" anyway because she felt sorry for them. Grace didn't go back on Friday. Instead she came to my house and we spent the day watching soap operas and talk shows. We phoned Julie seventeen times, but no one ever answered.

"Are you going to the Winter Ball tonight?" I ask Erica.

She shakes her head. "No. Even if I had a date, I wouldn't go," she replies. "Some people wanted to cancel it. There was a big argument on Tuesday in the student government office after Mrs. Monroe made the announcement about Emily. Pete Black and Kara Mauricio voted to cancel the dance, but Lauren and Katie Shea voted to go on with it. Not out of disrespect, but they'd already paid for everything. They had to bring in the activities commissioner to break the tie."

"Grace isn't going either," I tell her. A decision Grace made with some reluctance. After all, she already had her date and her dress. And she worked hard on the decorations committee, even if I suspect she spent most of her time arguing with Lauren Hoffman over colors and punch flavors.

Erica shifts on the swing, so that she faces me, and tucks her right foot underneath her. "It's so weird, you know. I'll be doing laundry or blow drying my hair and suddenly it hits me - Emily is dead. Wherever I am, I just start crying. Emily and I haven't been close friends since middle school, but I've known her all my life. There's a picture of us in the wading pool at my second birthday party. I keep remembering all these things about her, stuff we used to do, stuff she used to like. It's so unfair, Stacey." Several tears escape Erica's eyes and roll down her cheeks. She wipes them away with the back of her hand.

I rest my chin on my knees. Of course it's not fair. Emily didn't need to die. I should have saved her and I didn't. "I don't know what to do with myself," I confess.

Erica shrugs because she doesn't know either.

* * *

"I don't know what to say to them,"

"I'm not forcing you to go,"

"I know,"

Mom and I are in the station wagon, driving to the Bernsteins' house. It's early afternoon, but the sky is dark and overcast, so it seems much later. I haven't seen the Bernsteins since the funeral. Erica and her family have visited them. So have the Blumes. Mom went on Thursday evening. She didn't see Mr. and Mrs. Bernstein though. Mrs. Bernstein was in her bedroom, sedated, and Mr. Bernstein refused to see anyone. So, Mom spent twenty minutes talking with Mrs. Bernstein's mother. Then Mom went over to the Sterns' for an hour. She wouldn't tell me what they talked about.

There are several cars parked in the driveway and along the curb. Emily's Toyota is there, scrunched between a Lincoln and a Honda. Mom makes me carry the cake. She drove all the way to Stamford to buy it at the city's only kosher bakery and deli. The Bernsteins are sitting shiva, which is the seven days of mourning following a burial. The Bernsteins aren't allowed to leave their house. Mom knocks loudly on the front door because it's the Sabbath and the doorbell's disconnected. Emily's uncle answers the door and brings us into the foyer, where he takes our coats. The lights are out and candles flicker around us. In the living room, I see Mr. and Mrs. Bernstein side by side on the love seat. All four of Emily's grandparents are there. I also see Barbara Hirsch and her parents, as well as Mrs. Blumberg.

"Emily's friend Julie is in the den," Rabbi Bernstein tells me.

I raise an eyebrow. "Julie's here?" I ask and he nods. I hand Mom the cake and walk toward the den. The door is half-closed. I certainly hope Julie has bathed and washed her hair. I push the door open. "Julie?" I say, softly, considering that perhaps she is asleep.

"Yes?" she replies, wearily, as I step into the den. "Oh. It's you. I thought you were Barbara Hirsch coming to bother me again." Julie sits up on the couch. Her hair is out of the coronet, hanging loose down her back, clipped with a barrette. It looks shiny and clean. She's out of the ill-fitting black dress, too, and wearing gray slacks and a pale pink v-neck sweater with a white blouse. She looks more like the Julie I know and yet, she is changed.

"You've washed your hair," I comment.

"My parents made me go home and take a shower,"

"What are you doing here?"

"Sitting shiva, of course," Julie replies, like it's the most obvious thing in the world.

I close the door and sit down in an armchair beside the window. Julie draws her knees to her chest, sitting sideways on the couch, and doesn't look at me. This awkwardness settles around us, an awkwardness I didn't expect, for whatever reason. It hangs here now, heavy in the air, and I wonder what I am supposed to say.

Julie breaks our silence.

"It's all my fault," she says to me.

No, it is not hers alone. We all have some stake in this. There is enough blame to cover all our lives. But I don't say that. Instead I say, "No, of course it isn't," because this is a time to lie. We are all covering up after Emily, burying her beneath lies.

"Yes, it is," insists Julie. "I gave her the idea."

I sit straighter in the armchair. "What?" I ask, sharply.

"When we were driving home on Monday, Emily told me she was in trouble. She said she needed a way out. She was afraid of her parents, of their disappointment. I told her, she should distract them, make them thankful she was all right, if flawed. I suggested we drive the car into a lamppost,"

"You told her to drive her car into a _lamppost_?"

"We were only going thirty-five miles an hour! I thought it would solve everything!"

"You thought driving into a lamppost would solve everything? What ever gave you such a stupid idea?" I demand.

Julie's profile hardens, her mouth turned down in a severe frown. "After my mother was thrown out of Bryn Mawr, she stole her parents Cadillac and ran away to Washington, D.C. While high on acid, she accidentally drove the car off a bridge. Her parents were so happy she didn't die, they posted her bail and paid all her attorney fees," Julie finally looks at me. There's something altered in her face, something blank and clouded. "I thought it would work again. I didn't know Emily was so desperate."

Of course not. Because Julie doesn't know about Georgetown. Driving into a lamppost would not solve that problem. It would not make the Bernsteins all-forgiving. "Emily was desperate, but it's not your fault. Emily didn't drive into a lamppost or off a bridge. I don't think it was an accident, real or staged," I say. I wonder what is worse, that Emily didn't mean it, or that she did.

Julie looks away again and stares at the door. "Yes, it was," she replies and I don't argue. Maybe it's what Julie needs to believe. And maybe it's the truth. There are so many things I don't remember about that night, so many things no one will say because we are busy repeating lies, hoping that even ourselves will believe them.

"Tonight's the Winter Ball. I'm not going, of course. Grace and Erica are spending the night though. If you'd like to come...we'll be talking about Emily. They're bringing old yearbooks and photo albums. You could bring yours too,"

Julie continues to stare at the wall. "I'm sitting shiva. I have to stay here until Tuesday night," she replies.

"What about Christmas?"

Julie shrugs. "Who cares?"

There's a light knock at the door and Mom pokes her head in. "Ready, Stace? We still need to go to the A&P," Mom says.

I nod and stand. I guess Julie and I are done. She doesn't look like she wants to talk anymore.

"Hello Julie," Mom says with more sweetness and softness than she's ever used on Julie. "How are you? How are you feeling?"

"Everyone keeps asking me that. What do they expect?"

Mom half-smiles, unsurely. "Oh," is all she says.

"Merry Christmas, Julie," I tell her, taking my coat and scarf from Mom. I wind the scarf around my neck, waiting for Julie's reply, but it never comes.

* * *

Grace, Erica, and I are sitting around the dining room table attempting to string popcorn. Grace saw it in some holiday cartoon this morning and thought it looked fun. It is not. It's hard and I keep poking my fingers with the needle. Grace says I should be used to that, but it isn't the same. We're already in our pajamas, even though it's only seven o' clock. Erica and I are in ordinary flannel pajamas. Mine are faded blue. Erica's are fire engine red with little Santas on motorcycles all over them. Grace is wearing emerald green cashmere pajamas. I didn't even know cashmere pajamas existed. I think they're mildly ridiculous.

"So, you saw Julie today," Erica says, casually. Erica and Grace have been here an hour and we haven't yet discussed anything related to Emily. We made tostadas and talked about Skeeball. Grace has mentioned the Winter Ball no less than fourteen times.

"Your mom told you?"

"Yeah, but she never saw Julie. She said Julie was in the den hiding from Barbara Hirsch, who kept crying and talking about Amelia Freeman," says Erica. She takes a handful of popcorn and shoves it in her mouth. "What did Julie say?"

"Nothing,"

"Nothing?"

I shrug. "Nothing. She's sitting shiva with the Bernsteins. She says she's not leaving for Christmas."

"We only sat shiva for three days when my nana died," Erica tells us. "It was boring." Mr. Blumberg is Jewish, Mrs. Blumberg is not.

"Julie wasn't there when my parents and I visited last night. Mr. and Mrs. Stern had come over and dragged her home to change and shower," says Grace, jabbing her needle through a piece of popcorn. "I bet you twenty bucks, Christmas Eve they'll be carrying her down the street."

"She found Emily _dead_. The Sterns will let her sit around the Bernsteins house as long as she wants," says Erica.

"Emily wasn't dead yet," I correct, quietly.

Grace shifts uncomfortably and clears her throat. She throws down her popcorn string. "This is stupid. When does _A Charlie Brown Christmas_ come on?" She pushes back her chair and wanders into the living room. She comes back with the t.v. guide. "Eight-thirty. We can watch _A Garfield Christmas_ at eight though."

The telephone rings. "Can you get that Mom?" I shout. I hear the faucet shut off in the kitchen. It's probably Mr. Prezzioso. He took Jenny and Andrea to Chatham for the weekend to visit his parents. I'm sure Jenny is saying lovely things about us.

"I don't know what you're talking about, Ed," I hear Mom say in a tight, raised voice.

I freeze. The plane ticket. I forgot about the plane ticket.

"Well, you should have called...I mean, before now...I'm sorry you were sitting at the airport...well, it's your own fault...you can't expect..._no_, you can't expect..." There's a long pause. Grace and Erica are sitting very still now, holding their breaths, ears perked. This is just what I need. "Don't yell at me! It's not...Stacey can't drop everything whenever you decide on a whim to be a father...you haven't spoken to her for almost three months!...Stacey's been through a lot...how can you even accuse me of that? I'm the one raising her. You can't even bother to...hello?...HELLO?"

He hung up on her. For the second time in two months he hung up on her. And practically right in front of my friends.

"Was that your dad?" asks Erica, after moment of silence.

"Yes,"

"Did he hang up on your mom?"

"Yes,"

The kitchen door swings open and Mom comes through, red-faced and fuming. "That was your father," she tells me.

"I was supposed to fly to Cleveland this afternoon,"

"He sent you a plane ticked?" Mom demands in an unnaturally high voice. "He just sent you a plane ticket? He didn't call or write a note?"

"No,"

Mom curses and storms out of the dining room. She stomps up the staircase and slams her bedroom door. Grace turns to me, jaw hanging open, looking positively scandalized. "Did your mother just say what I think she said?"

Erica laughs. "I didn't know parents knew that phrase!"

I set down my needle and thread. "Let's go up to my room," I suggest, half-heartedly. It's just like Dad to step in when I least need him complicating my life.

Upstairs, Grace throws herself onto my bed and digs through her overnight bag. She pulls out a navy and silver-covered yearbook. There's an aardvark on the cover. "Want to see Emily Bernstein with a perm?" she asks.

"The fourth grade yearbook!" exclaims Erica. "I couldn't find mine!"

I lay down beside Grace, as she flips through the pages of the yearbook. Erica pulls over my desk chair and sits backwards in it. "We were in Miss Clements class that year. I think it's page twenty-five," says Erica.

"Page twenty-three," replies Grace. "Ugh. There's Howie Johnson. This is the year he blew his nose on my science homework."

I stiffen slightly. I don't know how she can dare say anything bad about Howie Johnson.

"Consider yourself lucky, he blew his nose on my dress!" Erica cries. "There's Emily! _What_ did her mother do to her hair?"

I stare at the picture Erica points to. It's of a tiny girl in a plaid dress with a short, curly brown afro. "That is _not_ Emily Bernstein," I protest.

"Isn't it awful? Cokie and I banned her from our lunch table because of that perm," says Grace. She points to the girl two pictures down from Emily. "There I am." Nine-year-old Grace looks just like the current Grace on a smaller scale. I look three rows down at Cokie Mason. She and Grace wear matching polka-dot headbands and haughty expressions. I bet they practiced beforehand.

"That's me," says Erica, pointing to Grace's left. Nine-year-old Erica has rabbit teeth and a side ponytail with a gigantic bow clipped above it. "Is this the year of Julie's coughing photo?"

Grace turns the page to someone named Mr. Beasley's class. She scans the page. "No. I think that was fifth grade. I didn't bring that one. But I think this is the year with the photo of when Lauren Hoffman tried to climb the tree during the Christmas pageant and it fell on Emily," Grace starts flipping pages again.

"What was Emily doing in the Christmas pageant?" I ask.

"Mr. and Mrs. Bernstein didn't want her excluded. She was a rooster. _I _was Mary. Look, here's the photo. You can see Emily's feathers sticking out from underneath the tree," Grace slides the yearbook toward me. I squint, barely making out the blurry feathers beneath the branches of the pine tree. I can see Lauren Hoffman's blonde hair and angel wings, and Grace in the background, staring down at the wooden manger, hands folded in prayer, looking very pious.

"Oh! There's Claudia and Pete!" cries Erica, tipping forward in the chair, jabbing her finger at another photo. I recognize Claudia, even if she is dressed like a sheep. I don't recognize the bald shepherd next to her though. "Mrs. Black shaved Pete's head because he had lice," Erica explains.

I stare down at the photo spread, sadly, feeling sorry for Emily and for myself. These are memories I don't share. There are all these things about Emily that I never knew. I should have heard all the stories. I should have seen all the photos. I missed out on so much, and Emily will miss out on so much more.

"Does Claudia know about Emily?" I ask Erica.

Erica looks up from the photo spread. Her smile fades. "No. I almost phoned her at her cousin's in Japan, but Dad told me not to. The Kishis will be home in a few days. Imagine, coming home from vacation to learn someone you've known all your life is dead and buried." Erica sniffs and turns the page.

"Now I feel guilty," announces Grace.

"Why?" I ask.

"For laughing at Emily's ugly perm. And about that tree falling on her. Maybe we should only say nice things about Emily, like how she was always willing to loan out her notes, or how she never forgot anyone's birthday,"

"Those things are boring," Erica protests, closing the yearbook. "Emily wasn't boring. She had a sense of humor about herself...most of the time. She'd laugh about the perm and the tree if she were here. She wouldn't want us to just cry and be sad. Emily would want us telling funny stories and laughing. That's how we'll remember her, not by talking about her English notes."

I roll onto my side, so that I'm looking at Grace and Erica. "Sometimes I feel guilty too," I tell them. "I forget about Emily for a few minutes and am happy. It seems wrong. It's like, maybe I should never feel happy again. But Erica's right. Emily wouldn't want that."

Grace folds her arms and rests her chin on them. "It doesn't feel like Emily's dead. It's like she's on vacation and I'm expecting her back at any moment. But she's never coming back. And I know it, but I don't believe it," says Grace. It occurs to me that I haven't seen Grace cry for Emily. Maybe crying would mean admitting that Emily truly is gone.

"Will your dad make you go to Cleveland?" asks Erica.

"He can't make me do anything,"

"Good," whispers Grace. "We can't lose you too."

Erica bursts into tears. It's unexpected, yet no one acts surprised. She digs her fists into her eyes, as if she can physically fight back the tears. I rest my forehead against the soft shoulder of Grace's cashmere pajamas. I have no more tears for today, but I am heavy with regret and uncertainty. There should be a guide for mourning with detailed instructions. There could be a checklist of emotions and a chapter devoted to figuring out how much of the blame is yours.


	40. Chapter 40

Christmas Day.

A choir's singing on the radio, wishing me a merry, merry, merry Christmas. They're very encouraging, but I suspect they're wasting their time. A triple merry Christmas is a lot to ask.

This morning, Mom and I went out for a Christmas breakfast at Thelma's Cafe, which is the only place in Stoneybrook open on Christmas Day, other than Stoneybrook Cinema. We drove past the Bernstein's pharmacy and all the lights were out. Mom and I didn't say anything. We just drove on by. Now it's noon and the smells of Christmas lunch are wafting from the kitchen. I'm sitting on the couch, unwrapping the rest of my presents. Mom and I opened ours to and from each other right after breakfast. I gave Mom a new coffeemaker. Mom gave me a pair of designer jeans, a black leather jacket, a fancy cosmetics case filled with Bellair's products, a mess of tapes, and a new book bag. Far more than I deserve.

Mom and Mr. Prezzioso are across the living room in the armchair. Actually, Mr. Prezzioso's sitting in the chair while Mom's perched on its arm. She's wearing her new garnet and pearl necklace. It looks very delicate and elegant displayed around her neck. The bruises Mrs. Prezzioso left there are now completely gone. Mom keeps running her fingers through Mr. Prezzioso's hair. She can't stop touching him, ever since she opened his gift. It's mildly annoying, slightly bordering on disturbing.

Mom asked yesterday if I cared if she invited Mr. Prezzioso for Christmas Day. I think she had already invited him, but it was nice that she asked my permission anyway. I said it was all right. I don't mind him so much anymore. Although, I didn't tell Mom that. It might give her ideas.

I've just unwrapped my gift from Uncle Lou and Aunt Beverly. Three ski sweaters with matching knit hats and scarves. I smile slightly at the thought of another ski vacation, another brief hiatus from the troubles that lurk in Stoneybrook. I neatly fold the sweaters back into their box and begin unwrapping the enormous box that arrived on Thursday from Grandma and Grandpa Spencer. They live in Arizona and we never see them.

"Oh!" I cry, in surprise and lift the gift from the box. It's a large suitcase in eggplant purple and gray plaid.

"Well, I'm sure we can return it," Mom says, a bit disdainfully.

The suitcase is heavy. I unzip it, quickly, and discover a smaller matching suitcase and carry-on bag inside. "I kind of like it," I admit, smoothing a hand over the plaid material. There's a note attached to the handle of the carry-on. It reads: _For college next year! _in Grandma Spencer's flowing cursive. "I do need new luggage," I agree, as if Grandma Spencer's standing right there.

Mom arches an eyebrow. "I suppose if you like it..." she says, although her voice informs me that my new luggage is almost too hideous to bear. Probably because it's from Grandma Spencer.

My last gift is from Mr. Prezzioso. It's a small box wrapped in shiny gold paper with a gaudy red and gold bow, the kind that comes from the gift-wrap department at Bellair's. I unwrap it slowly, so not to tear the paper, which is silly since it's not like I'm going to save it or something. When the wrapping paper is cast aside, I lift the lid off the white box. Inside is a bracelet watch. The bracelet has red, black, and white stripes. The face is square and silver. I know Mom picked it out.

"Thank you, Nick," I say, snapping it around my wrist.

I glance up and Mom and Mr. Prezzioso are staring at me, wordless. I realize what I've said, my mistake. I blush and shut the box. "I mean, thank you, _Mr. Prezzioso_," I correct, but the damage is done. Mom and Mr. Prezzioso smile at me. Mom so widely she may crack her face. I duck my head and fiddle with the bracelet. I hope they won't expect me to call him that on a regular basis now.

I wheel my new suitcases over to the window, where Mom and I have been piling our gifts. We never did buy a Christmas tree. I pile the box of sweaters on top of the large suitcase, then pluck the final gift off the windowsill. I take it across the room and hand it to Mr. Prezzioso. "Here, this is for you. Merry Christmas," I tell him, then return to my seat on the couch.

"Thank you, Stacey," he replies, tearing off the wrapping paper. He stares down at the tape I've given him. "Oh...hey, Joan Baez. Thanks."

I lean back on the couch and cross my legs. "I know you enjoy bad music and that's the worst tape Julie Stern has in her collection. I figured it was perfect for you," I explain.

"Stacey!" Mom exclaims. The look on her face tells me she wishes she'd picked out my gift to Mr. Prezzioso instead of giving me twenty dollars and instructions to buy him something.

"No, Maureen, it's great. I like folk music. Thank you, Stacey," Mr. Prezzioso insists.

"You're welcome."

Mom frowns at me once more, then slides off the armrest. "I'll go check on the ham," she says and disappears into the dining room.

"I think _Miracle On 34th Street_ is on. The old one, not the remake," I say, digging the remote out from between the couch cushions. I click on the television.

"Jenny and Andrea like the new one."

"Mom _hates_ it."

"Good thing that one's not on then," Mr. Prezzioso replies. He starts straightening his boxes beside the armchair. Mom gave him new jogging sneakers for Christmas, and spicy-scented cologne and aftershave. She doesn't like the kind he buys himself. I watch Mr. Prezzioso set the tape atop the cologne and aftershave, which is setting on the shoebox. It's like a straight, neat tower.

"Mom was going to buy you clothes," I inform him, watching as he pushes the tower farther from the armchair. "But I told her not to."

"Why is that?"

"Mrs. Prezzioso used to buy your clothes and you never looked comfortable. I thought, you probably don't want another woman telling you what to wear," I don't add that maybe Mom _should_ pick out his clothes in order to avoid any more dorky-looking sweaters. Like the green and blue mini-checked one he's wearing now.

Mr. Prezzioso's neck turns red. "Oh...You noticed that?"

"Noticed what?" asks Mom, walking back into the living room. She's wearing a white apron across the front of her black skirt. She must have forgotten to remove it because she whirls around and walks back to the kitchen, pulling at the knot as she leaves. When she returns, apron-free, she forgets to ask again about Mr. Prezzioso's and my conversation. Instead, she makes me turn off the television.

"It's Christmas," she tells me. "We shouldn't be watching television. Lunch will be ready in twenty minutes. Will you set out the china, Stace?"

"Sure," I sigh, swinging my legs off the couch and getting up from my warm, comfortable spot. I'm crossing to the kitchen when the doorbell rings.

Mom straightens up in her seat at the other end of the couch. "Who could that be?" she asks, turning around to look at the front door. "Are you expecting someone, Stace?"

I frown, puzzled. "No," I reply. Grace is supposed to be at her grandmother's all day. Erica and Lauren are visiting relatives out of town. No one else would come see me on Christmas Day.

"Better answer it, Stace," Mom says, standing up. She smoothes back her blonde hair, then tugs on her black sweater. She folds her hands behind her back, waiting for me to open the door to our visitor.

It's probably Mrs. Prezzioso, I say to myself, _coming to give you a black eye._ I cross to the front door, fluffing my hair as I walk. I flick a green ribbon of the sleeve of my red cashmere sweater, then lift onto my toes to look through the peephole. I gasp and spin around.

, I say to myself, I cross to the front door, fluffing my hair as I walk. I flick a green ribbon of the sleeve of my red cashmere sweater, then lift onto my toes to look through the peephole. I gasp and spin around. 

"I'm not answering the door," I announce, hurrying away. "I'm not here!"

"What's wrong? Who is it?" Mom cries, alarmed, rushing to the foyer. Mr. Prezzioso's now standing, following Mom.

"I'm not here!" I shout, starting up the stairs. I'm only halfway up when Mom opens the door.

"Ed!" she exclaims and I halt in my mad dash for the upstairs.

"I'm not here!" I repeat, sternly, even though not only can Dad hear me, he can see me, too.

"Stacey!" Dad yells, as I resume my run up the stairs.

"Stacey! Get back here!" Mom calls after me just as I slam my bedroom door.

I turn the lock and pace the room, wringing my hands. What is Dad doing here? Who does he think he is charging into my life, which is already a tangled mess? I made myself perfectly clear with the plane ticket. I don't want to see him. I don't want anything to do with him.

I hear swift footsteps coming down the hall. The doorknob jingles. "Stacey!" Mom shouts, pounding on the door. "Anastasia Elizabeth McGill! Unlock this door!"

The sharpness in Mom's voice convinces me to do as she says. I unlock the door and step back as it swings open and Mom comes in. "What was that?" she demands.

"What was what?"

"You ran away from your father!" she replies, voice rising.

"So?" I answer. "He hangs up on you all the time."

Mom frowns. "That's different," she says. "He's your father. He's come all this way to see you. You need to speak to him."

"Why?" I demand, growing angry. I thought she was on my side. Traitor.

Mom's silent a moment, thinking. "I've been wrong, Stacey," she finally says, voice much calmer. "I've allowed this to go on far too long. I've allowed my own anger and bitterness to cloud my judgment. This should have been resolved weeks ago. Stacey, you need to speak to your father."

"No!"

"This is ridiculous, Stacey. You aren't spending your life consumed by petty vindictiveness toward your father. Trust me, you don't want that. Fix this relationship while you still can. He drove all this way to see you. He's willing to make an effort and you should be too."

"Well, I'm not," I snap and flop backward onto my bed.

"You're behaving like a spoiled brat."

I sit up. "I've been through a lot. Emily Bernstein died. You didn't see what I saw."

"Don't make excuses," Mom says, the sharpness returning to her voice. "Don't use your friend's death as an excuse to punish your father. That's an insult to Emily's memory."

I drop my eyes to my lap and smooth a crease in my pants. Mom is right. I am horrid.

"You can't leave things unresolved with your father, Stacey. You don't have to forgive him, you don't have to stop being hurt. But you do have to speak to him and explain why you're so angry. What if he died tomorrow? Would you want all these things unsaid and unsettled? Think about Emily. I'm sure there are many things you wish you'd said to her."

"Yes," I whisper.

Mom opens the door. "I'll give you a few minutes to collect your thoughts, then I'll send your father up," she says. She steps out of the room and shuts the door.

I cross to my desk and pick up my hairbrush. I fix my hair, then freshen my makeup. I haven't cried today, the first day in a week that I haven't, so my eyes aren't puffy or red-rimmed. I look nice. I look like myself.

I'm sitting on the bed, waiting, when Dad knocks on the door. I call out permission to enter and he walks in. He looks the same as when I saw him in October. I actually think he's wearing the same suit and tie. For some reason, I expected him to be altered, sort of like I'm altered on the inside. I'm not the same Stacey from October, the same Stacey who fled Pietro's in tears. Mary Anne was with me then. She was my best friend. All that is altered too.

Dad shuts the door. "I can't believe it's been almost three months," he says, his voice casual and conversational. I shrug and he clears his throat. "So, your mom has a boyfriend! Took her awhile to rebound from your old dad, huh?" Dad chuckles.

"Took her awhile to _recover_ from the old dad," I correct, coldly.

Dad stops chuckling. "Or that," he agrees, still attempting that conversational tone. "You like him?"

"Do I like who? The old dad or Nick?"

"Your mom's boyfriend."

"Of course. He's great. He has two daughters. We're all going on a ski vacation to Uncle Lou's cabin in Vermont after the New Year," I lie, leaning back onto my elbows.

"Is that so?" replies Dad. He walks around the room, looking at all my things. He's only been up here a couple times several years ago. Mary Anne and I redecorated over the summer. I know Dad won't notice. "How is old Mary Anne?" Dad asks, picking up a framed photo of Mary Anne and me skating in Central Park last winter. I didn't realize it was still sitting on the bookshelf.

"We aren't friends anymore."

"Is that so?" Dad puts the frame back in its spot. "Probably for the best. She was too dependent on you. Too needy. You can branch out now without her hanging on your shirttails. You should start college next fall unencumbered."

"She was not," I reply, irritably. I watch Dad run a finger over the spines of my books. "My friend Emily died last Monday," I tell him.

Dad turns around, eyebrows raised. "Really? She died?" His voice arches a bit, surprised, but I see in his face that he doesn't recall Emily.

"Emily Bernstein," I say. "She stayed at your apartment for four days over Spring Break?" Last April, Dad told me to bring all my friends into the city for a long weekend. Usually, I just went with Mary Anne. Dad was feeling generous that weekend, or maybe he just wanted to ensure I'd be entertained while he and Samantha worked all through my visit. So, Emily came along with Mary Anne and me. I invited Grace and Julie, too, but the Blumes won't permit Grace in the city without guaranteed constant adult supervision. They have some weird paranoia about Grace being mugged, raped, and murdered. Julie declined, saying she dislikes big cities, but really, I think New York scares her. Maybe she's been listening to the Blumes. "You took us to the Hard Rock and a Broadway show," I remind Dad. _The only time you saw me that weekend, _I silently add.

"Oh, yeah. She died? That's too bad, Stacey. I'm sorry," Dad says. He doesn't ask for details. He doesn't ask how Emily died. He doesn't ask what I saw and what I remember and what I see when I close my eyes. I don't expect him too. He's just my father after all.

Dad stops walking around and pulls out my desk chair, turning it to face me. "Look, Stacey, I came to talk to you about our relationship," he says, settling into the chair. "Samantha and I were really disappointed when you didn't show up on Saturday. We were waiting at the airport. Sam was very upset. She'd fixed up your room and everything. You should have called, Stacey. You should have let us know your plans."

I sit up straight. "_I_ should have called _you_?" I scoff. "Why? I wasn't the one treating someone like a mail-order daughter!"

"Mail-order daughter!" Dad exclaims.

"Yes! That's exactly what I am to you! You stick a ticket in the mail when it's convenient for _you_. You don't care about my plans or my wishes. I always have to work around you and your schedule! You never worry about mine. There's always, always, always something more important than me! And it's usually work or Samantha!"

"That's what's wrong? You're jealous of Sam? I thought you liked her!"

"I did like her. I mean, I do. You aren't listening, Dad! You don't ever listen! I'm sick of being an afterthought and an inconvenience. That's how you treat me. You tell me you're moving to Ohio at the last possible second, like you've just recalled you have a daughter and better give her a heads up. And then you send me a change of address card, like I'm a business associate or something. And you send me a plane ticket because your schedule's clear this Christmas, so you can fit me in. But you don't consult me. You just assume I'll take it because I'm your daughter and I'm supposed to love you unconditionally. Well, Mom stopped taking it. She stopped settling for second rate. And I'm not taking it anymore either!"

Dad stares at me, stunned. He doesn't speak for awhile. Just stares at me. Finally, he clears his throat. "I'm sorry, Stacey," he says, quietly. "I didn't know you felt that way."

It's my turn to stare. How could he not know? I've been telling him since I was thirteen years old! "You don't listen," I say. It's true. He isn't really listening now. He pretends and makes promises and always forgets.

"I love you, Stacey," Dad tells me. His face says he means it and his eyes do too. And I know he believes it as he says it. _He loves me._

But not enough.

"I love you, too, Dad," I say and wonder if my voice sounds as hollow as I feel. I love him. I love my father. But maybe I don't love him enough either. I'll always have to settle for the time and love he can spare me. And I'll always resent settling. He will never have enough for me and in return, I'll never have enough for him. I see before me a lifetime of compromise to match the broken promises. This is how it will always be.

Dad stands and spreads his arms. "How about a hug for your old dad?"

Slowly, I stand and walk to him, let him envelope me in his arms. I smell his aftershave, the same he's always worn. He's the same and I am altered. And he doesn't see.

"I love you," Dad tells me again and I guess it's enough that he believes he does.


	41. Chapter 41

Grace breezes into Argo's ten minutes late, lavender coat pulled tight around her, flecks of snow nestled in her red hair. I wave to her from my booth in the back. Grace returns the wave and hurries over, peeling off the lavender coat to reveal black slacks and the gray crewneck sweater I gave her for Christmas. I'm glad I remembered to wear the silver star earrings she gave me.

"You got the coat!" I exclaim, as Grace slides into the seat opposite me. We haven't seen each other since Sunday, Christmas Eve. Today is Wednesday and we've hardly spoken in between.

"Of course. I asked for it, didn't I?" Grace replies, her voice slipping into one of its snotty tones. I'm not bothered by that anymore. "I'm starving, Stace. Have you decided what you want? I already know what I want." Grace doesn't wait for my response. She thrusts her arm into the air and waves over the waiter.

"How was your Christmas?" I ask Grace after the waiter takes our orders.

"Fine! We spent the entire day at my grandmother's, and Mom and Aunt Corinne only got in two fights. I think that's a family record or something," Grace laughs, then rattles off the list of all the wonderful gifts she received. She turns her head so I can see the opal barrettes catching the light in her hair. "But get this!" Grace cries, banging her palms down on the table. "You know how my grandmother lives on the same street as Mary Anne's stepmother's parents? Well, Gran told me that a couple weeks ago, she kept seeing Mrs. Spier come out of her parents' house in the morning. Then, she'd return every night. Mr. Spier and Mary Anne were never with her. That went on for about five days. Then, yesterday, Gran was walking her dog and she ran into Mrs. Porter. Mrs. Porter told Gran that Mrs. Spier went out to California for Christmas and isn't coming back until after the New Year. She went alone." Grace raises an eyebrow in a meaningful way.

I take a long sip of my tea. "She did the same thing at Thanksgiving and nothing seems to have come of it," I say.

"I guess. But it _is_ weird. Even though Mary Anne hasn't spoken to me in two months, for no reason at all, I feel bad for her. What a house of misery that must be," Grace stirs the straw in her pineapple soda. "She must be very lonely." Grace's mouth turns down slightly, as she continues to stir. She drops the straw and brightens. That switch of hers again, flicking herself off and on. "How was your Christmas?" she asks.

I shrug. "All right. Mr. Prezzioso came over. My mom made a ham. I got a lot of great gifts. Grandma and Grandpa Spencer sent me luggage, which you'll probably hate. Mom gave me a black leather jacket, which you'll definitely love. Mr. Prezzioso gave me this," I push up the sleeve of my white and black Shetland sweater and extend my arm, so Grace may admire the watch. When I draw my arm back, I fold my hands neatly in front of me. "My dad showed up." I tell her.

"Showed up where?"

"At my house. On Christmas," I reply. I take a small sip of tea, then spill out of the story of Christmas Day. I don't leave out any details. I tell the complete truth. There's nothing to hide or gloss over. I feel no need to protect Dad.

"So, you've settled things?" Grace asks when I finish.

I shake my head. "No. Nothing's settled, nothing's different. He doesn't listen and he doesn't change," I shrug and pick up my cup again. "But I said what needed to be said. I'm free of that burden. I guess that's what's important."

"We can't change our parents, no matter how much we may wish to," Grace picks up her straw and starts stirring it again. "I need to ask you something," she says.

There's a slight tightening in my stomach, a tightening that must come with holding too many secrets, and not knowing which one might be asked to be released. "What?" I ask, but then the waiter comes over with our order. We sit silently as he sets our plates before us. When he leaves, I pick up my egg salad sandwich and repeat, "What?"

Grace glances down at her patty melt and onion rings. She's torn between eating and starting the conversation she intended to start. She touches an onion ring. "They're really hot," she says, then turns her head to check around us. Argo's is practically empty and no one else is sitting anywhere near us. Grace leans in and whispers, "Was Emily...was...did Emily have a drug problem?"

I choke on the egg salad. I wash it down with the rest of my tea, then gesture to the waiter that I need another. I lean in close to Grace. "Why would you ask that?" I demand. I wonder if she's spoken to Julie. I assumed Julie would never say anything. She would see it as a disloyalty to Emily to reveal such a secret now, and cast doubt on the cover story about her death.

"Remember when I told you about Emily coming over that Sunday? How I caught her coming out of my parents' bathroom? Well, on Monday night, before you called about...what happened...Mom came into my room and asked if I'd been in her medicine cabinet," Grace explains and that tightening continues in my stomach. Of course. I was so stupid. I should have known. "My mother has epilepsy, which I guess you don't know, and she takes pills. I'd just gotten her prescription refilled a couple weeks ago, but already more than half the bottle was gone. She actually thought I'd taken them. Like, why would I? I told her about Emily. She was going to call the Bernsteins, but then you called and said Emily was dead."

"Why would Emily steal epilepsy medication?"

"It's used to treat other things, not just epilepsy. Or maybe she didn't know what it was. I think she did. She probably looked up my parents' prescriptions at her parents' pharmacy. She left my dad's blood pressure pills alone," Grace says, pushing an onion ring around on her plate. "Mom's sort of freaked out. She doesn't believe the story about how Emily died. She thinks Emily overdosed on her medication."

I'm not certain I feel sorry for Mrs. Blume. Perhaps she deserves to feel a little guilt over something.

I set down my sandwich and brush my hair over my shoulder. I'm not lying anymore. "I caught Emily stealing drugs from her parents' pharmacy," I confess. "That's why she started avoiding us. She thought the pills were helping her."

Grace's eyes widen. "She really was taking drugs? Is that why she - " Grace lowers her voice even more, "killed herself?"

"She didn't get into Georgetown."

Grace picks up an onion ring and drops it into the ketchup. "I was thankful that I got to spend that afternoon with her, but now I know, she only came over to steal from me."

"She was in over her head. She got so tangled up in her own deception, she couldn't get herself out. I know it's difficult, but we can't take it personally. That wasn't Emily. The real Emily disappeared some time ago," I tell Grace. I take a bite of my sandwich. It's suddenly tasteless and hard to swallow.

"I have a confession," Grace says, swirling the onion ring around. "I've never told anyone. Not even my parents know." Grace glances around again, ensuring no ears are listening in. "I understand Emily, in a way. I know how she felt, how desperate. I tried to kill myself once."

It's like she socked me in the stomach. "What?" I gasp, stupidly.

"It was the winter of ninth grade. Howie Johnson had just come back to school. Everyone felt so sorry for him. He's all anyone talked about. Poor Howie the cripple. Cokie and I weren't speaking. My parents wouldn't talk about 'the incident'. I felt so awful all the time. I was lonely and I couldn't imagine ever feeling any other way. So, one afternoon when no one was home, I strung up a belt in my closet and jumped off the desk chair...and the clothes rack broke and everything fell on top of me."

I bury my face in my hands. Oh my God. All these things I never knew. The winter of ninth grade. What do I remember? Howie Johnson returned to school, I remember that. Mary Anne and I wrote a story about him for the _Gazette_. What else? What else? Julie talked me into joining the swim team. Emily and I dissected a fetal pig in biology. I don't remember anything about Grace. How did I not see?

"I don't know what to say."

Grace shrugs and finally bites into her patty melt. She swallows. "You don't have to say anything. It was a long time ago."

"And afterward? How did you feel then?" I ask.

"Relieved."

I prop my elbow on the table and rest my chin in my palm. "So, what, you just stood up, unlooped the belt from around your neck, and fixed the clothes rack? And everything was fine?"

"Of course not, but..." Grace shrugs. "I knew I made a mistake. I knew I didn't really want to die. I worked through it on my own."

"Those feelings don't just go away. You try to turn yours off and on like a switch, but they're still there, buried deep and hidden. I worry about you, Grace."

Grace tilts her head to the side and smiles. "I know."

The entrance door swings open and in stamps Lauren Hoffman with Katie Shea and Kara Mauricio and several other kids from the student government. Lauren shakes the snow out of her hair and stomps her feet. I slump down in the booth. "Don't turn around," I whisper to Grace.

Of course, Grace whips around. She turns back to me and groans. "Speaking of people who make me want to kill myself..."

"Don't joke about that," I snap.

Grace flushes pink. "Sorry. I wasn't thinking."

"Stacey!"

"She saw us," Grace moans.

The rest of her group slides into a large booth while Lauren rushes over. Her cheeks are very pink from the cold and her dark forest green trenchcoat is covered in wet spots. Lauren sort of slides to a halt beside our booth.

"Happy late Christmas!" she exclaims. "How was your holiday?"

"Fine," I reply, simply. Grace doesn't answer, just goes back to eating her lunch, but I guess Lauren probably wasn't speaking to her anyway. "How was the Winter Ball?" I ask because I don't want to get into a discussion about Christmas. Lauren knows all about disappointing fathers and if I start talking, I might spill all about mine. Dad's visit isn't something I care to share right now. Not with anyone but Grace.

"The Winter Ball was very nice. I wore this navy blue velvet dress. It was actually my cousin Michie's old prom dress, but I didn't care. My mother taped my breasts together and I looked fabulous. Wait till you see the pictures! And the decorations were terrific, especially the color combination, " Lauren looks pointedly at Grace, then turns back to me. "Price Irving came with this really homely tenth grader named Wendy. I told her that Price was the one who gave Howie Johnson genital warts. I think she believed me. She looked absolutely horrified." Lauren chuckles, then holds out her right hand. There's a silver bracelet with two interlocking hearts around her wrist. "Ross Brown and I are going out now."

Poor Ross Brown.

"That's great, Lauren," I say.

Grace snorts. She's slumped forward with her arms folded, sipping pineapple soda through her straw, eyes rolled up at Lauren. It's very attractive.

Lauren casts a disdainful look down at Grace. "I see you're making up for lost time now that the Winter Ball's past. No more celery diet. Good thing, you were turning a bit green," Lauren says, in a snotty voice to rival Grace's snottiest of tones. She turns back to me. "Have you seen Julie? I saw Mr. Stern earlier at the post office. He said she doesn't want to see anyone."

I shake my head. "No. I've been busy." What a lame excuse.

Grace spits out her straw. "I saw her yesterday. Maybe Mr. Stern meant she just doesn't want to see you."

Lauren ignores her. "I feel so bad about Emily. She was always nice to me, even after I dared Julie to shove her out of that tree house - "

"Even after you made a tree fall _on_ her," adds Grace.

"That was an accident," Lauren says, irritably. "Stacey, I hope you aren't upset that we didn't cancel the Winter Ball. Some kids wouldn't come. Mary Anne never showed up. She was supposed to go with Rick Chow. He came all by himself. Pete and Kara wouldn't go either. They were boycotting." Lauren looks over at where her friends are sitting. Kara Mauricio is laughing very loudly. "Pete and Kara are going out now. I guess you were wrong about him and Mary Anne."

I raise an eyebrow. "Pete and Kara? Really?" I never expected that. I thought he and Mary Anne were still hung up on each other. But then I'm wrong about a lot of things.

Lauren nods and opens her massive tan purse. I think I could fit my car in there. Lauren takes out a stack of bright orange envelopes. "I know it's short notice, but I just decided last night. I'm having a birthday party. My birthday's actually tomorrow, but I'm having it New Year's Eve. I hope you can come." Lauren shuffles through the pile and hands me an invitation. My name is scrawled rather messily on the front, surrounded by birthday stickers.

I open the invitation slowly. I don't know if I'm ready for a party. What if everyone stares at me and quizzes me about Emily? I don't want to spend an entire night avoiding people and repeating lies. I guess that's what I have to look forward to now. "You're only turning seventeen," I say, opening the invitation.

Lauren shrugs. "The school district tried to make me start kindergarten a year later. I had to get special permission and take a test."

"Good thing you're _so_ smart," says Grace.

Lauren glares at her. "Here, I'm inviting you too," she says and flicks an invitation at Grace. It hits Grace in the forehead. "I thought it would be rude not to. Don't feel obligated to come or anything."

"I won't," says Grace, tearing open the invitation. Hers doesn't have any stickers. "I'm staying over at Stacey's that night. I guess I have to go if she does."

I finger the invitation, staring at the bright, vivid colors declaring a celebration. My life has to restart sometime. "We'll be there, Lauren. My mom's going to the Blumes' New Year's party, so Grace and I were just going to hang out at my place anyway."

Lauren smiles. "Great. I'll see you Sunday then!"

"Happy birthday tomorrow!" I call as she hurries back to her friends.

Grace sighs, dramatically. "Well, I'm not buying her a gift," she tells me. Grace tilts her head and thinks a moment, then says, "She taped her _breasts_ together? How do you do that?"

I laugh. It's odd to feel so normal and so strange in a few minutes span.

Grace and I leave Argo's awhile later. The snow has stopped but the sidewalks are still covered. The snowplow has come by, so at least the streets are clear. Across the street, several store fronts down, the lights are on in the Bernsteins' pharmacy. Their Buick isn't out front and neither is the Crown Victoria Mr. Bernstein sometimes drives. I wonder who's inside the store. Maybe the Bernsteins rehired Mr. Malkowski. Maybe they figured out the truth.

Grace is buttoning her lavender coat with her gloved fingers. "Everyone feels sorry for the Bernsteins," she says and I realize she's staring at the pharmacy, too. "Do they know about Emily?"

I shrug. Who knows what anyone knows anymore.

"I need to buy travel-sized toothpaste and shampoo. Do you want to come to the A&P with me?" Grace asks. The Blumes are taking her to Atlanta next week. She's already been accepted to some all-girls Christian college there. The Blumes don't want her going. It's too far, they say. Maybe it's more of that murder and rape paranoia of theirs. And maybe they're afraid if she's too far from their reach Grace's conscience will overtake her and she'll spill her secrets all over the floor. Maybe it's a million different reasons. Who knows why we protect the things we protect. Who knows if we do it for all the wrong reasons.

"Mom's waiting for me at home," I answer. Today is the last day of Mom's vacation.

Grace walks me across the street to my car. Hers is farther down the street outside Polly's Fine Candy. We stand by the driver's side door, hands inside our coat pockets. I should say something. There's something I should say. But all my words are tangled inside me. "I'm glad you didn't end up like Emily," I say and I hope it's the right thing.

Grace smiles, sadly. "Me too," she replies. "You're a good friend, Stacey."

"I wasn't a very good friend to Emily."

"I'm sure you did your best," Grace says. She brushes a lock of hair from her eyes. "I wasn't going to tell you. My parents, they're sending me to a specialist. A psychiatrist. His office is in Stamford. I'm starting when we get back from Atlanta. I guess my parents are afraid I'll end up like Emily, too." Grace raises her shoulders and looks at me unsurely. "Your mom could call my mom and get his number. If you want. If you think you should see him, too."

"Maybe I should."

Grace smiles again, her sad little smile. We say our goodbyes and she walks away with a small wave. I unlock the car door and slip behind the wheel. I sit there awhile, watching the cold, white street. It starts snowing again, very lightly. I watch it fall, floating slowly on the air. Maybe Grace is right. I don't want to be like her or Emily. I don't want to bury myself so deep that I become lost, lost in my secrets and disappoints, in my own lies. I don't want that. I don't want that at all.

* * *

Thursday afternoon I decide to see Julie. She won't come to the phone when I call. She appears to have dropped off the face of the earth. The only person who has seen her is Grace. Since she stopped sitting shiva at the Bernsteins, she's trapped herself in her house, like it is her new fortress to hide behind, stronger and more durable than when she simply hid within herself.

On the way to Julie's, I drive past Emily's house. Emily's Toyota is still parked at the curb, like it's waiting for her to run out of the house and drive it away. There's already a "for sale" sign in the driver's side window. Mrs. Bernstein's standing on the porch with her father, leaning back against the railing, still dressed all in back. I glimpse a cigarette dangling between her fingers as she flicks the ash over the railing into the flowerbed. I've never seen Mrs. Bernstein smoke before.

I park in Julie's driveway and knock hard on the front door. I try the doorbell, but it's disconnected. I knock a second time and hear heels clicking toward the foyer on the tile. Mrs. Stern answers the door and smiles when she sees me.

"Hi Stacey," she greets me, stepping aside so I can come in. She's wearing a silky floral-print skirt and a mint green blazer. She doesn't look like someone who would steal a car and drive it off a bridge. "You're in luck. I just got home from work. I'm the only one who answers the door anymore. You'd like to see Julie?"

"Yes, please."

"Right this way. She's back in the family room," Mrs. Stern says, gesturing for me to follow. She leads me through the living room to the back of the house and pauses in the archway to the family room. "Juliebean, Stacey's here to see you," she calls out.

"I'm in no state to entertain," Julie calls back in a wavery voice.

Mrs. Stern ignores her and plows right into the room. I hang back, leaning my shoulder against the archway. Julie's laying on the Sterns' tweed couch, propped up against two fluffy pillows. Despite the cold outside, she's dressed in khaki shorts and a "Cokie for Homecoming Queen" t-shirt with Cokie Mason's photo in the center. Mrs. Stern pulls open the curtains on the sliding glass doors, sending light streaming in. Julie shields her eyes.

"_Mom_," she whines, squinting at Mrs. Stern.

"Have a nice visit," Mrs. Stern says, ignoring Julie again. She strides out of the room, leaving me alone with Julie.

I step into the family room and remove my leather jacket. I fold it neatly on the arm of the couch, then perch carefully on the edge of the recliner. Through the sliding glass doors, I see Paul chasing Holly through the slushy snow, slipping and stumbling every few feet.

"Where's Rachel?" I ask.

"In our room. She's sleeping."

I check my new watch. "It's four o' clock," I say, but Julie only shrugs. "I have something for you," I tell her. I open the book bag Mom gave me for Christmas and pull out a gift wrapped in snowman paper.

"I have something for you, too," Julie says and swings her legs off the couch. Julie has very white, skinny legs. I don't think I noticed before. Julie ducks underneath the Christmas tree in the corner and digs through the already unwrapped gifts piled there. The Sterns have a short, artificial tree with fake snow clinging to its branches. It's sprayed with a fake pine-scent that isn't wholly convincing. I don't know how the Sterns can look at it and feel it's really Christmas.

"Here. Merry Christmas," Julie says, handing me a gift in red and green paper.

I hand her mine. "Merry Christmas," I echo. We sound so false. Fake Christmas cheer to match the fake Christmas tree. I tear open the gift, crumpling the paper and allowing it to fall on the floor. Inside are two bottles of french vanilla shampoo and conditioner. I unscrew one of the caps and sniff. The scent is lovely and intoxicating. Usually, Julie gives everyone the same book for Christmas. "Thank you, Julie. I love it," I say, taking another sniff.

"You have pretty hair," Julie says, simply. She already has the scarf I gave her wrapped around her neck. It's navy and magenta chenille. "Thanks for the scarf and the book. I haven't read this one." She flips over the book and reads the back cover.

"My Aunt Beverly was reading it in Vermont. She said it was really good."

Julie nods and sets the book on the coffee table.

"Lauren Hoffman's having a birthday party Sunday night," I tell her.

"I know. She gave my dad the invitation. I told him he can go in my place."

"Grace and I are going," I say. I wrapped Lauren's gift before I came over. Dad express mailed me all my Christmas gifts from him and Samantha. They arrived this morning. Samantha bought me the exact same pair of boots that she gave me in September, the knee-high black ones I wear all the time. Lauren admired them once. Now she'll have her very own pair.

Julie shrugs and draws her knees to her chest, wrapping her arms around them. "I don't want to go to a party," she says, flatly, resting her chin on her knees. "Rachel's dropping out of nursing school," she tells me.

"What?" I exclaim. "Isn't she graduating in June?"

"She doesn't want to be a nurse anymore. What happened to Emily, it's sort of messed her up. Our parents are really upset. She's been at Stoneybrook U. for over five years. She was on a waiting list for two years to get into the nursing program."

"But she works at Stoneybrook Manor. People die there all the time."

"Old people are supposed to die. It's not the same," Julie replies.

I scoot back in the recliner and tuck my legs up into the seat with me. I rest my head back against the cushion. "Every time I close my eyes, I see Emily lying in the hallway. Just lying there covered in blood. And then I hear Mrs. Bernstein scream. I've never heard anyone scream like that. It was sickening."

"It was...it was really terrible. I don't know what Emily had been doing. There was blood all over the bathroom, trails of it dripped everywhere. Emily was only semi-conscious when we got there. She was sitting in the hallway, up against the wall with her skirt wrapped around her wrists. The telephone was next to her. I don't know why she didn't call an ambulance."

"She wanted to die," I answer, quietly, not knowing how anyone could possibly want that, how anything in life could be so horrible that death is the only solution.

"Emily didn't want to die," Julie replies, sharply, anger building in her voice. "It was an accident. She didn't intend to kill herself."

I frown. Maybe Julie needs to believe that.

"Don't look at me like that, Stacey McGill. You don't know anything. You can't rush in at the last moment and assume you know everything," snaps Julie. "The Bernsteins were supposed to be home. Mr. Bernstein told my parents. They were closing the store early because it was the first night of Hanukkah. They were going to Mr. Bernstein's parents' in Stamford. Something happened, a customer came in and there was a problem. They were late."

I raise my head and straighten up. There's a fog settling around my mind. I shake it off and regard Julie, incredulous, as she sits on the couch watching me. "What do you mean? It was a trick? Emily was tricking her parents? She actually listened to your lame lamppost idea and decided to take it up a notch?" I demand. I press my wrist to my forehead and close my eyes. Oh my God. Oh my God.

"I don't know. I don't know what she was thinking. But the Bernsteins were supposed to be on their way home," Julie's voice breaks and she's silent a moment before continuing. "Paul told me you came over, that you said Emily was telling her parents. I went over there and all the lights were out. I knocked on the door, but Emily didn't answer. I figured they'd already left for Stamford, that Emily had change her mind. Then half an hour later, the telephone rang and it was Emily in a panic. She told me I had to come over, to bring Rachel with me. She said not to call her parents. I'd just gotten out of the shower, so I threw on some clothes and Rachel and I ran over. I forgot my shoes. Emily wouldn't answer the door. We ran around back and got the spare key from under the barbeque. Then we found Emily."

I still have my eyes closed. I can barely breathe. Why did I leave her?

"She made us promise not to let her die," Julie says, dully. "We promised."

I close my eyes tighter. I'm running up the stairs. Up, up, up. Mrs. Bernstein is in front of me. All I can see is the back of her violet sweater. She's shouting, _"Emily! Emily!"_ We reach the landing. And Emily is there. Emily splayed out on her back, in the middle of the hallway, arms limp at odd angles, one knee bent to the side. Her skirt and blouse are bloody. There's a white t-shirt tied around her right wrist. Her left wrist lays exposed, an angry red slash across it. Underneath, a teal hand towel now marbled red with blood. And Emily didn't want that. It was a _mistake._

"I'm going to be sick," I announce, jumping up and rushing from the room. I run through the living room and down the hall to the bathroom. I drop to my knees and lean forward over the toilet bowl. I gag, but nothing comes up. My eyes begin to water and the feeling passes. I stand up and turn on the sink faucet, splash cool water on my face.

There's a light knock on the door. "Stacey? Are you all right in there?" asks Mrs. Stern.

"Fine," I call out in a shaky voice. I listen to her retreating footsteps, then take a washcloth from the drawer. I dry my face and eyes. Some of my makeup comes off, but it doesn't matter. I toss the washcloth in the hamper and leave the bathroom.

Julie's still sitting on the couch when I return, still resting her chin on her knees. "You were gone a long time," she tells me. "I sent my mother after you."

I didn't realize I was gone that long. It felt like only seconds.

"Are you okay now?" she asks.

I shake my head.

"My parents say it will go away. We won't always feel like this."

"Like what?"

"Guilty. Isn't that what's wrong? Guilt and regret and remorse. Feeling sorry for Emily. Feeling sorry for ourselves," Julie says, her voice still dull and strange. "Mr. and Mrs. Bernstein told us, they're thankful we were with Emily. We don't come into this world alone and we shouldn't leave it alone either. They wouldn't be grateful if they knew the truth. They're so confused, Stacey. They don't know why Emily did it. They think it's all their fault, but they can't think of a reason. And I'm too chicken to tell them the truth."

And so am I. I have the whole truth now, pieced together, a patchwork truth. And I am keeping it for myself.

"What did Emily say before she died?" I ask Julie. I hate to think Emily's last words were wasted on requesting a promise that was not fulfilled.

"She wanted Mrs. Bernstein."

I would want my mother, too. I glance down at my lap and twist the watch around my wrist. My words are lost. My mind is blank. There isn't anything else I have left to offer, not even false words of consolation, empty promises that everything will be all right. Empty, like the promise Julie gave to Emily.

"I never told my parents."

I look up, surprised. "What?"

"I never told my parents," Julie repeats. "I lied to you."

Julie lowers her face to her knees, so I cannot see her. Her body begins to shake and for a moment, I am stunned. Julie Stern is crying. She wraps her arms around her head and her sobs intensify, quickening, and grow louder. And I watch in stunned silence from the recliner. Somehow, I never imagined Julie knew how to cry.

Mrs. Stern appears under the archway and rushes to Julie. She stands behind her, closing her arms around Julie. Mrs. Stern leans in and whispers in Julie's ear, something I can't hear. When Mrs. Stern straightens again, she says to me, "I think you better go home, Stacey. Thank you for coming over."

I nod, gathering my bag and jacket. "Goodbye Julie, Mrs. Stern," I say and stride quickly from the room. Outside, the cool December air hits my face. I stand for a moment on the porch, eyes closed tight, feeling the breath return to my lungs. Down the street, Mrs. Bernstein's still standing on her porch with her father. She's angled in my direction, arms hugging herself. I should shout out to her that I am sorry, sorry for what I did and didn't do, sorry for the secrets I've kept. But I am like Julie. A coward.

Mom and the Sterns are right. In time, it will dull away, everything I am feeling in this moment. The guilt, the regret, slowly will disappear and I will live my life. We'll all go on. Maybe that isn't right. Maybe I should spend my life angry and regretful. That might be what we deserve, Julie and I, our lives to stop like Emily's, derailed and empty. A mistake. That's all it was. A series of mistakes, of missteps, covering the ones made before.

I wonder if I'm a bad person now, marked by my mistake. Like Mom. Like Grace and the Blumes. Maybe I am ruined, forever condemned to this path, the path of a bad person.

When I get home, Mom's already there, sitting on the couch, sewing a button onto her pants. I flop down beside her and rest my head on her shoulder. "Do you think Mr. and Mrs. Blume have left work already?" I ask Mom.

"I don't know. Why?"

"I'd like you to call Mrs. Blume for me. I need a phone number."


	42. Chapter 42

Sunday morning, I'm in the kitchen mixing instant chocolate pudding. I beat the whisk fast against the sides of the bowl. When all the lumps are out, I divide the pudding slow and evenly into four green plastic dessert dishes. Mom bought them yesterday at Bellair's. The Prezziosos are coming for lunch. Mom's convinced Jenny and Andrea would break her good dessert dishes, the etched glass ones her grandmother gave her. Jenny would do it on purpose. I cover each dish with cellophane and slide them into the refrigerator. My pudding is already in there chilling. Sugar-free pistachio.

After rinsing out the mixing bowls, I put them and the whisk into the dishwasher. It's a fight to fit them. The dishwasher is already crammed full. Mom's been cooking all morning. She's made a lot of food, especially considering that Mr. Prezzioso's bringing an appetizer and a green bean casserole. And now Mom's at the A&P again, picking up last minute ingredients. I check my watch. It's ten. The Prezziosos will arrive at twelve-thirty.

Mom said it was time for us to try again. "Us" being Mom and me and the Prezziosos. We all need to make an effort and if we all try hard enough, we can wear even Jenny down. I guess my slip on Christmas gave Mom renewed hope. This is a fresh start. A new beginning for a new year.

A fresh start.

I lean forward against the sink, staring out the window. The Pikes' backyard is empty, muddy from the just-melted snow. Yesterday, I caught Nicky Pike hiding inside our garbage can. He told me Mallory's leaving tomorrow for her fresh start in New Hampshire. Another fresh start. I wonder how many fresh starts a person gets. Mallory's already wasted two. And me, how many have I wasted? I don't even know.

I survey the kitchen. It's relatively clean. I've washed the new plastic plates and cups Mom bought for today. They match the dishes. I write Mom a quick note, then pull on my white parka and hurry out the back door. I slide across the Pikes' backyard, the soles of my knee-high boots caking with mud. I try to stamp it off on the porch, but it's thick and sticky. I unzip the boots and pull them off and set them neatly beside the door. Through the window of the backdoor, I see Mrs. Pike in the kitchen with her head bent down. Claire's standing on a chair beside her. I rap sharply on the window. Mrs. Pike looks up in surprise. I wave and she gestures for me to come in.

"Hi Stacey!" Claire exclaims, jumping and nearly falling off the chair. She and Mrs. Pike are rolling out pie crust.

"Hello Stacey," Mrs. Pike greets me.

"Hi Claire. Hello Mrs. Pike," I reply, stepping up to the counter. I fold my arms on the counter top.

"What kind of pie are you making?"

"Apple!" cries Claire. "There's already a peach in the oven. Can't you smell it?"

I nod. "Smells good."

Margo steps out of the pantry. I hadn't noticed her. She saunters up to the counter to stand beside her mother. "Hi Stacey," she says, coolly. She sounds like Mallory. "Anyone almost die at your house lately?" she asks.

"Margo!" Mrs. Pike says, sharply. "Please go upstairs and remind Adam to take out the trash."

Margo rolls her eyes, but retreats silently.

Mrs. Pike pushes her hair from her eyes, streaking flour across her forehead. "I'm glad you stopped by, Stacey. It will mean a lot to Mallory that you've come to say goodbye," Mrs. Pike says, then hesitates. "That is why you've come, isn't it?" she asks, as if it's just occurred to her that maybe I've come to borrow a cup of milk.

"Yes. Is she in her room?"

"Yes, she's packing," Mrs. Pike tells me. She glances at Claire, who's engrossed in sprinkling individual grains of sugar on the pie crust. Mrs. Pike returns her attention to me, looking very serious. "I've been concerned about you, Stacey, ever since that day you ran out of here. I'm sure you know I spoke to your mother."

"Yes. I know," I reply, quietly.

Mrs. Pike looks at me expectantly, waiting for more, and when it doesn't come, says, "I'm very sorry about your friend Emily. What a terrible accident." Thankfully, Mrs. Pike doesn't point out that terrible accidents seem to happen when I am near. "It's tragic to lose someone so young. Mallory liked Emily very much."

I suspect Mrs. Pike and I both know that's a lie. Mallory didn't like Emily at all.

"It is tragic," I agree. I sound very lame. But how do I voice my true emotions? Disappointment in my own shortcomings and failures, and the knowledge of what I did and didn't do. Those aren't things spoken in words. "Tragic," I repeat in barely a breath of a voice.

"Yes. Very," says Mrs. Pike, sympathetically. She gazes at me strangely for a moment, then says, "Mallory's downstairs. You can go on down. It'll be a nice surprise for her."

I nod. "Thanks," I say and head for the door to Mallory's room, the old rec room. I glance back at Claire and Mrs. Pike, who have their heads bowed once again, working the pie crust into a pan. I wonder if Mrs. Pike suspects something. I know I confused her that day, babbling about secrets and Emily Bernstein. I should have told her that day. Just as I should have told my mother or the Bernsteins or the Sterns. Anyone who would have listened, I should have told. I came so close so many times. I almost told them all. And again and again I backed away. Near misses don't count for anything. They are simply failures that should not have been.

I don't knock on Mallory's door. I just open it, like I used to, and walk down the stairs into her and Vanessa's bedroom. Mallory's back is to me, bent over a suitcase on her bed.

"Hey Mal," I call out, breezily, from the bottom step. I wait there for her to turn around.

Mallory turns slowly toward me. She's dressed very sloppily in baggy teal sweats and a stained SHS phys ed t-shirt. She's even wearing her old glasses, the ones with the red plastic frames. She's gained a few pounds. It looks good on her. "Oh. Hi Stace," she says, glumly, then returns to her packing.

"Let me help," I offer, stepping off the bottom step. "I'm an expert packer." I pick up the laundry basket from Mallory's desk and set it on her bed. I start plucking out socks and finding their matches.

"Sorry about Emily. She was such a...wonderful person," Mallory says. She pauses. "Okay, that's a lie. She was a total bitch. She rode me like I was some dumb mule to her crazy, tyrannical editing cowgirl."

I have no idea what that's supposed to mean.

"But she was your friend. For some reason. So I'm sorry," Mallory continues, then mumbles under her breath, "Sticking me on the freaking sports page. Making me do her stupid research..."

I set a pair of socks in her suitcase. "She shouldn't have made you work on the sports page," I tell her. "That was mean of her. It was just because she didn't like you and that wasn't very professional of her. You're a good writer."

Mallory shrugs, but I know it bothers her more than she lets on. "It doesn't matter anymore. I won't be writing for the _Gazette _now. Mr. Arden's still trying to woo back Julie Stern. I guess she's still really pissed about that Homecoming thing. Until he gets her back, Shawna and Mary Anne are co-editors-in-chief. I don't know who's worse, Julie or Shawna. I think they both have a little too much Emily Bernstein in them. It's good I'm getting out now," Mallory says a bit too insistently. "Altman Academy has a newspaper. I sent its editor-in-chief some of my _Gazette_ articles. Of course, they're all stupid sports ones."

"That doesn't matter. They're still well-written articles," I say. Maybe the editor at Altman will treat Mallory better than Emily ever did.

"Mom and Dad are hoping that if I bring my grades up maybe I can get a scholarship next fall. They took out a loan to pay for this term. They say it's not too late for me. I can still turn myself around," Mallory tells me. "I've really disappointed them." Mallory stares into her open suitcase for a moment, then slams down the lid and latches it. "Want to see my uniform? It's hideous." Mallory crosses to the closet and slides open the door. She pulls out a burgundy plaid jumper and a white short-sleeved blouse.

I try not to make a face, but fail. "Ew," is the most polite thing I can say.

"I know. It clashes horribly with my hair. Look how long the skirt is," Mallory holds the jumper against her body. The skirt reaches mid-calf. "We have to wear this at all times. Even on the weekends. Even when we get day passes to go into town. Isn't that embarrassing? There's even rules about jewelry! Only stud earrings. And the only make up allowed is mascara and lipgloss! You wouldn't survive, Stacey."

"That's terrible, Mallory," I say, although I think that's just the kind of strictness and order that Mallory needs.

Mallory opens a second suitcase and begins stacking books inside. I smile when I notice several Saddle Club books and a well-worn copy of _Misty of Chincoteague. _"I haven't been to the school yet. Mom and Dad have, of course. The headmistress called me last week. She was very cheery-acting. It was really fake. I can see through people like that. She knows all about me. Mom and Dad told her about all my problems here and at Riverbend. She thinks she can save me."

I fold my arms over my chest, protectively, as if expecting Mallory to strikeout at my next words. "Mallory," I begin, soft and calm, "what happened at Riverbend?"

Mallory shakes her head, so that her tight red curls bounce side to side in their ponytail. "It's stupid," she says. "I was stupid."

I don't say anything. I wait patiently. Sometimes people need a few minutes of quiet to decide what to reveal.

"I fell in love with my writing teacher. Mr. Bowmen. He was married to the Latin teacher."

"So?" I say. Surely Riverbend doesn't object so strongly to teacher crushes.

"So? So, I thought he liked me, too. I told you, I was stupid."

I knit my brow. That doesn't make any sense. I pursued a teacher once, in eighth grade. I was naive and foolish, but SMS never would have thrown me out for it. Then it dawns on me. "Oh, Mallory! Did he take advantage of you?" I exclaim, hand flying to my mouth.

"No! Of course not. It wasn't like that," Mallory insists. She sighs and sits down on the edge of her bed. "I really did think he liked me though. He always praised my writing and encouraged me to visit during his office hours for extra help. He wanted me to enter a national short story competition for middle-schoolers. My crush grew and grew all through eighth grade year. I became sort of obsessed. And my friends," Mallory laughs, bitterly. "My _friends_ told me he liked me too. They kept insisting and encouraging me. They convinced me to make my move at the end of the year. They planned it out and everything. I did exactly what they said. And...here I am." Mallory stands again and continues stacking books inside her suitcase.

I close my open mouth that dropped in shock. "What did you do, Mallory?" I ask.

"It doesn't matter. Mr. Bowmen didn't appreciate it. He took me straight to the headmistress. The next day, I was gone. I'm sure my friends got a good laugh out of it. A great trick on their part. A real laugh riot."

"I'm sure they didn't expect for you to be forced to leave. They probably believed he liked you."

"I wouldn't know. It's not like any of them ever wrote."

"I'm sorry, Mallory."

"I don't want your pity, Stacey," Mallory grunts. "That's all you've ever had for me. Pity. I don't want it anymore."

I don't protest. Maybe she's right.

"Mom and Dad say it'll be different this time. They're wrong." Mallory tells me, bitterly. "They're cutting me off from everyone. They wrote out this list for Dr. Meadows - the headmistress - and I can only send mail to and receive it from those people. It's only my dumb siblings and my grandparents. None of them are ever going to write me. Mom and Dad just don't want Ben writing me. Or Benny Ott or Mara Semple. Or anyone else who might screw me up more. They're so optimistic, my parents."

"You haven't really given them reason to trust you," I point out.

"I guess not."

I watch Mallory shut the second suitcase and latch it. She drags it off the bed and sets it by the stairs. She does the same with the other suitcase. Then she stands in the center of the room, hands on her hips, surveying for anything she's forgotten. I can't stop pitying her, even if she doesn't want it. I try to remember exactly when we stopped being friends, when I realized I no longer liked her. She hasn't been my Mallory for a long time, the Mallory who was my friend. Odd, practical, slightly immature Mallory. I still catch glimmers of her breaking through that hardened exterior. She's there. Somewhere. I would like to know her again.

"Maybe I could ask your mom to put me on that list," I offer.

"Maybe you could."

Mallory and I don't hug goodbye. We don't even smile. We're not that kind of friends anymore. We're not any kind of friends. We're somewhere in-between, in the gray that blurs from friend to acquaintance. Maybe we'll always be like that. Maybe not.

Mom's in the kitchen when I get home, rolling chicken breasts in bread crumbs. "I decided to make chicken and rice instead of grilled salmon. You're right. Most kids won't eat fish," Mom says, looking up from the kitchen table. "What were you doing at the Pikes?"

"Saying goodbye to Mallory. She leaves for that religious school in New Hampshire tomorrow. It's supposed to save her, you know."

"Maybe it will. She's a very unhappy girl," Mom says, laying the chicken breasts in a glass pan.

"Yes. She is," I agree. I wet a rag and wipe up the bread crumbs that have fallen on the table.

Mom checks her watch, then carries the glass pan to the refrigerator and slides it onto an empty shelf. "A bit too early to cook that," she tells me, then washes her hands at the sink. She walks back to the table where I'm still cleaning up. Mom watches me, drying her hands on her apron. "Mr. Bernstein called while you were gone," she says.

My stomach sinks. I glance back down at the table and continue wiping, although the table is clean. "Oh? What did he want?"

"The Bernsteins found a Christmas gift for you in Emily's closet. Mr. Bernstein said for you to drop by anytime to pick it up."

I stop wiping the table and fold the rag into a small square. Emily bought me a Christmas gift? Like it was any other year when everything was normal? But then, Emily always did her shopping months in advance. That gift has probably been sitting in her closet, wrapped and ready, since May. I wonder if I should take over Emily's Hanukkah gift. I didn't know if I was even going to give it to her. It's a yellow and blue striped frame from Bellair's. I put a photo in it of our old group - me, Mary Anne, Emily, Grace, and Julie - from when we were still a group. The photo was taken last spring after a swim meet. Grace, Julie, and I are in our school suits, dripping wet. Grace's mouth is wide open because she was shouting at Paul Stern _to not take her photo while she was_ _wet_. Mary Anne and I have our arms around each other, hugging and mugging for the camera. Julie and Emily are doing something weird with Julie's wet towel. It's draped over their heads with their faces peering out. Emily, caught in a brief moment of strangeness. Is that something the Bernsteins would want? Maybe it would just make things worse for them.

I wonder about that picture in Emily's bedroom. The one she had facing the wall. I hadn't thought about it until now. What was it about that picture that bothered Emily so? I'll probably never know.

"Are you okay?" Mom asks. She's watching me, concerned. "I shouldn't have told you. I should have waited."

I shake my head. "No. It's all right. Maybe I'll go over next week. Maybe." I can't see the Bernsteins yet. I don't know what to say to them. "Is it okay if I go for a walk?" I ask Mom.

"Of course. You should change though. You don't need to be walking around in those boots. You'll slip and hurt yourself."

My mother. A worrier to the end.

I race upstairs just as the phone rings. I hear Mom answer it as I reach my bedroom. I pull off the boots and my black skirt. I slip into an old pair of jeans, then slide my feet into ratty sneakers. I keep on my black and white Shetland sweater. It's thick and warm. I hurry back down the stairs just as Mom's hanging up the phone.

"Fay Blume and I are playing racquetball next weekend," she tells me.

I stop in the doorway. "You don't play racquetball," I reply.

"I can learn."

I cross the kitchen to where I draped my parka over a chair. "I don't think you should be hanging around with Mrs. Blume," I inform her.

"Why not?"

"I think she's a bad influence."

Mom laughs.

I slip into my parka and zip it up. "I think you should make up with Mrs. Pike."

Mom stops laughing. She frowns, deeply, and busies herself at the sink. "I don't think so, Stacey."

"You could try."

"I thought you were taking a walk?"

"I am," I reply. Poor Mom. All she wants is a friend. It's unfortunate she had to choose Mrs. Blume. "I'll be back before Nick and the girls get here," I promise and start toward the dining room. I pause and turn around. "When you and Mrs. Blume have your racquetball date be sure to tell her there wasn't an autopsy on Emily. I think she's interested in knowing that." I leave before Mom has a chance to answer.

I walk briskly down Elm. I pass Erica Blumberg's house. All the windows are dark. I turn down Reilly Lane and slow my walk. I was wrong. I shouldn't have spoken to Mom like that. Why do I never learn? The same mistakes, over and over. I stuff my hands into my pockets and bow my head, so the cold wind cannot continue its full assault on my face. I'll apologize as soon as I get home. As soon as I walk through the door. Mrs. Blume could like my mother. She doesn't have to have an agenda every time. And after all I've done, perhaps I am in no position to judge.

These are the sort of things I'll talk about when I meet Dr. Petrinski. She is my new therapist. The man Grace is going to see in Stamford, he is too expensive. But Mrs. Blume gave Mom Dr. Petrinski's number and her fee is more reasonable. Dr. Petrinski's office is in Mercer, so Mom says I don't have to worry about anyone finding out. I'm not worried. I know people won't think I'm crazy. Emily Bernstein just died. I have a lot to deal with, more than anyone knows, but I think Emily is enough for everyone.

I'll meet Dr. Petrinski in two weeks when she returns from vacation. I wonder what I'll tell her. Maybe I'll tell her everything. I'll start from the beginning and work my way through the autumn. But where is the beginning? Was it my dinner with Dad? Was it last summer when Mary Anne hid out at my house because she didn't want to share her car? Or was it when Emily Bernstein decided she could pray and worship her way into Georgetown? All our stories, my stories, have their own beginnings. We're connected, crisscrossing and intersecting, running in and out. Because we are friends. We will always be friends, at some past point in our lives, connected always. And where is the end? My story, my problems, don't end here. My life will go on. And I hope it will be happy.

I end up at Stoneybrook Elementary. I walk around to the side where the playground is. It's overcast out, making the empty school appear cold and sinister. I wipe off a swing with my gloved hand, then sit down. I swing slowly, back and forth, for awhile, thinking all the thoughts that are jumbled in my mind. I'm on the swing a few minutes, lost in thought, when I notice a silver car creeping down Kimball Street at a crawl of about three miles per hour. I stop swinging and stare. At first I worry it's a child molester surveying the playground for kids. Should I run and call the cops? Then the driver comes into view, hunched over the steering wheel, gripping it tight. I see the silver car is an older model Mitsubishi Eclipse. I sit in my swing, still staring, as the car comes to a stop (which it was practically at already) and the driver's side door opens.

Mary Anne climbs out. She locks the door, checking it three times, then satisfied, leaves the car and walks toward me. She's wearing her white parka, too. I haven't seen her wear it in a very long time.

"When did you get your license?" I ask when Mary Anne gets near.

Mary Anne glances over her shoulder, back at the car, as if she's already forgotten she drove here. "Friday. I only passed by one point. I think the instructor felt sorry for me. I'm only allowed to drive in the neighborhood. I can't go downtown, or drive to school when it starts. Dad's rules."

"Mr. Strict."

"Yeah," Mary Anne sits down in the swing beside mine. It rocks back and forth a little. "I went to your house. Your mom said you'd gone for a walk. I've been out looking for you. I caught sight of you on Forest Drive and followed you this way. It took me awhile to get here."

I wait for her to tell me why she's looking for me, but she doesn't, so I ask, "Are you going to Lauren Hoffman's birthday party tonight?"

"I wasn't invited."

"Oh."

Mary Anne nudges the damp sand with her tennis shoe. "My dad's in Minneapolis. He left last night. Some case is in trouble there. I'm staying with Grandma Baker," she tells me. "Sharon's in California. She wanted to spend the holidays with her _real_ family. That's what she said. I hope she doesn't come back."

"I'm sorry," I say. What else is there to say?

"I'm sorry, too. Not about Sharon. I'm sorry about the way I've treated you. You and Emily and Grace and Julie. Especially you. Especially Emily," Mary Anne stops kicking at the sand. Her feet still, firmly planted in the sand. "We were supposed to be best friends. You and I. I wasn't a very good best friend."

"Neither was I."

"Honestly, Stacey, I don't remember why I got so angry with you. I forgot a long time ago. Some stupid reason. Something meaningless."

"I was keeping secrets."

Mary Anne chuckles, almost bitterly. "Secrets. Everyone keeping secrets," Mary Anne chuckles again, then rests her head against the swing chain, gazing at me. "I have a secret for you, Stacey."

Maybe I've had enough secrets. Maybe I am through with them. But curiosity and suspicion win out. Such downfalls. "What is your secret, Mary Anne?"

"You know, I think I was so mad at you because you kept riding me about Pete Black. All the time, you were asking if we were getting back together. It made me feel so guilty, I could barely breathe. Pete wanted me and I couldn't make up my mind. Because of all the guilt. I knew all about you, Stacey, about the things you did with Robert and Jeremy. I didn't believe it for a long time, but then I realized it was the truth. You made a mistake, but kept it from me. I made a mistake, too, and kept it from you. Do you remember last April when Dawn and Jeff came out for Easter?"

I nod. "Of course. Dawn and Sharon made it a mother-daughter vacation and didn't include you. You were very upset."

"Yeah, I was," Mary Anne agrees, sadly. "Things hadn't been good for a long time between Dad and Sharon. Or Sharon and me. She wanted me to be Dawn. I couldn't be Dawn and Sharon couldn't forgive me for that. After Dawn and Jeff went back to California, Sharon came to me mad. Dawn had told her something, in confidence, but Sharon had to spill. Dawn was dating some college guy, which wasn't a secret, and her stepmom made her go on the birth control pill. Sharon was mad, not because Dawn was on the pill, but because Carol thought of it first. Carol was a cool stepmom. Sharon wanted to be a cool stepmom, too. She took me to Dr. Wallingford. Have you ever been to the gynecologist?"

I shake my head.

"It was awful. I felt humiliated. Exposed. I nearly cried. Dr. Wallingford wrote me a prescription for the pill. I didn't want it. Pete and I had only dated a few weeks. We weren't even discussing sex. Sharon didn't care what I wanted. She didn't listen. She even had the prescription filled at the Bernsteins' pharmacy! I still can't look the Bernsteins in the eye."

I lay my cheek against the chain, regarding Mary Anne. "I don't understand, Mary Anne, why didn't you tell me this? We were best friends."

Mary Anne stares at the ground. "I don't know. I was embarrassed," she answers, simply. "I didn't take the pill. I hid them in my sock drawer. Then Pete and I got more serious. I really liked him, Stacey. I may have even loved him. Pete and I...we decided to have sex," Mary Anne confesses, still staring at the ground. "His parents were going out of town. I told him I was on the pill. I started taking it three days before. I was scared, but I kept thinking about you and Dawn. You've always been so much more sophisticated and mature than me. I thought about what you did in _eighth grade_ when Logan and I were still giggling and holding hands. And I thought about Dawn and her college boyfriend and..." Mary Anne shrugs, but doesn't finish.

"I made a mistake, Mary Anne. A lot of mistakes. I wasn't mature or sophisticated. Just dumb."

Mary Anne shrugs again, sort of defeated. "It doesn't matter now. Pete and I didn't have sex. He backed out at the last possible second. Panicked. I cried. Mostly out of relief. Partially out of wounded feelings. I was there, naked in his bed, and he didn't want me," Mary Anne's shoulders quiver and she wipes her eyes. "I would have gone through with it, you know. I would have done it for all the wrong reasons. Because I was angry and jealous and stupid. Pete and I went to prom the next week, doubled with you and Jay Marsden, just as we planned. Then I broke up with him."

I remember none of us had a very good time at prom.

"You didn't have to keep that a secret," I tell Mary Anne. "I would have been there for you."

Mary Anne looks at me again. "I was so embarrassed," she says. "Dad found the birth control pills. He went berserk. I was so bursting to confess to someone, I told him everything. I think he wanted to murder Sharon. I honestly think he could have killed her at that moment. There was a huge blowout. Then they both started yelling at me because apparently, I was supposed to take the pills longer than three days before having sex. Dad took me back to Dr. Wallingford for a pregnancy test. I guess he didn't believe I hadn't had sex. Dr. Wallingford looked at me like I was a total moron who couldn't even take a pill properly. By then, Dad and Sharon weren't speaking to me. Sharon was furious that I ratted her out. She called me ungrateful. Then Dawn came for the summer. Sharon told her _everything._ Dawn laughed. It turns out, she hadn't wanted the pills either. She wasn't having sex. She told me I was stupid. That's why I wouldn't let her drive my car. That's why I hid out at your house all summer."

"Oh, Mary Anne," I sigh. "That's terrible. You should have told me. You should have." I am so lucky. Mom would never do that to me. Not even Samantha would treat me so coldly.

"I guess I should have," Mary Anne agrees. "I blamed Dawn and Sharon for a long time. Then I guess I started blaming you. I should have blamed myself. I realize that now."

"What about the bruise?" I ask since she's in a confessing mood.

"The bruise? Oh, that. I told you, I tripped over Tigger and fell into the banister."

"You mean, that was the truth?" I reply, surprised. I laugh. A grain of truth buried beneath the secrets and lies.

Mary Anne laughs, too. "What, did you think Sharon was _beating_ me? No. She wounds in other ways."

"And that's everything?" I ask. "There's nothing more?"

Mary Anne hesitates. "Yes. That's everything," She speaks without conviction and I know there is more, hidden and locked away. Maybe I will know someday. And maybe I never will.

"I guess you and Grace are best friends now," Mary Anne says.

"I think I'm too old for best friends."

"Me too."

We fall silent. I rock slowly in the swing. "On Tuesday, Erica, Claudia, and I are driving to New Haven. I've saved enough money to replace Mom's coffee table. You know, the one that broke during Emily's party. You can come, if you like."

"Maybe," Mary Anne replies. "I leave for Shadow Lake on Thursday. Kristy got a new car for Christmas. It's a girls-only trip. Nannie and Elizabeth with all Kristy's friends - Abby and Anna, Greer, a bunch of SDS girls. Everyone except Shannon. She's gotten kind of weird."

I raise an eyebrow. I guess anything is possible in anyone. No one surprises me now.

"We're going to Vermont again in a couple weeks," I tell Mary Anne. "Me, Mom, and Nick."

"Who's Nick?"

I feel my face grow hot. "I mean, Mr. Prezzioso."

"You call him Nick now."

"Sometimes."

"That's good," Mary Anne says, nodding. "That's good."

"Yeah, I guess it is," I agree.I stretch out my legs and tip back my head, just as the sun breaks through the clouds.

**The End**

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**Author's Note: **Now that _BFF_ has come to an end, there are several people I must thank:

**Emerald-Doll**, my oldest friend in the fandom. You are a far better friend than I deserve. You have offered encouragement and advice throughout this entire story. You've been generous with your praise, as well as your criticism. You always set my mind at ease when I e-mail you portions of chapters, worried and stumped, and you reply with suggestions. You've pointed out passages that need editing and the story has been better because of you. Thank you, thank you.

**Blanket Apologist**, you've been apart of _BFF_ from the very beginning. Literally. You read my first handwritten pages, full of scribbled out lines and cramped notations. You assured me that, no, it was not as bad as I suspected. You knew all the secrets before they were written. I vividly recall you doubled over with laughter after learning Grace's secret. I believe the words "I can't wait to see how you manage to make that _not _a parody" were spoken. Yeah, that certainly set my mind at ease. I also hold you indirectly responsible for the death of Emily Bernstein. But you know that. (Me and the world's smallest pony still miss you though).

My LJ f-list! **Lioness Black**, **Marauder Punk**, **Piperrhiannon**, **Paris Marriott**, **Chelz22**, **OffKey,**thank you for putting up with all my whining, ranting, and drama queening. Although, I suppose you all may have simply scrolled past those posts. And I wouldn't blame you. Thank you for your kind words of encouragement and your occasional sympathy. You always let me know that even if no one else was, at least you were all reading.

My reviewers! Thank you to everyone who has left a review during the course of this story. There is truly no greater reward than to know that people enjoy what I've written. A lot of time and effort goes into each chapter and I'm thrilled to know it is appreciated. Thank you. And a big thank you to those who reviewed almost religiously. For those who have never reviewed...well? What is your excuse?

Thanks for reading!

Celica


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